


Boundless Love and Leaving

by whiskygalore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Reversal, Angst, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Sam Winchester, Show level violence, Team Free Will Big Bang 2017, Younger Dean Winchester/Older Sam Winchester, implied suicide ideation, mentions of underage (brief and non graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskygalore/pseuds/whiskygalore
Summary: Written for the Team Free Will Big Bang 2017! Six years after running off to join the army, newly discharged Dean goes in search of his family, unsure of the welcome he’s likely to receive. A lot has happened in six years though; John and Sam have moved on with their lives and Dean’s plagued by demons, old and new, that holy water and exorcisms can’t cure.





	Boundless Love and Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to majesticduxk and dreamsfromthebunker (hit_the_books) for bringing the TFWbigbang back to life this year and for the huge amount of hard work and patience they've poured into ensuring its smooth running. Also massive thanks to majesticduxk for her beta reading, cheerleading and enthusiasm. I literally couldn't have done this without her. And also huge thanks to dreamsfromthebunker for stepping in at the very last minute to provide me with gorgeous artwork when my artist dropped out. I'm amazed at what she achieved in such a short time!!

 

 

 

Dusk is falling by the time Dean finally makes it to Pastor Jim's house. Three days of travelling by bus have left him aching and weary right down to the bone. His spine feels like it'll never straighten up again. All he wants to do is set down his bag, take off his boots, and sleep for twenty four hours. It’s a feeling he's far too used to.

The anxiety prickling under his skin intensifies as he opens the gate and walks up to the familiar front door, and Dean can feel sweat rolling down his neck, soaking into the collar of his uniform. The place looks pretty good; it seems like Jim finally got around to fixing his porch and painting the old flaking woodwork. The bell still doesn't work when Dean thumbs it, so he wipes his damp palms on his pants and knocks instead, a hesitant rap that reflects Dean’s apprehension.

He has enough sense, enough hours of talking to shrinks and counselors under his belt, to at least attempt some controlled breathing before his nerves turn into a breathless panic, but nothing can stop his agitated fidgeting; his fingers tapping out a frenzied rhythm against his thigh and his feet shuffling in an awkward side to side to dance.

"Yes, can I help you?"

Dean's already low spirits plummet. It's not Jim. The guy's a pastor, with the dog collar to prove it, but he's about twenty years too young, and a foot too short. "I'm sorry; I was looking for Pastor Murphy. Jim Murphy?"

The guy’s pole-axed expression says it all, and fuck if Dean doesn't feel tears pooling at the back of his eyes.

"I'm sorry, but Pastor Murphy died almost five years back now." The pastor’s voice gentles; pity on top of bad news.

"Five years?" Five years and he didn't know. Fuck. A shudder runs down Dean's spine, ripples through his arms, he shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking. "I didn't know. I'm... I'm sorry. Do you... do you know what happened? How he...."

For as familiar with death as Dean is, he can't bring himself to say the word.

“He was murdered, I'm afraid; killed in his own church, stabbed. It was—“ The man swallows hard and ghosts his fingers along his own dog collar. "It was a brutal attack. The perpetrator was never caught. The police blamed it on drugs, said it looked like whoever did it was possessed."

"Shit," Dean spits out, before remembering he's standing in front of a man of the cloth. Pastor Jim would have boxed Dean's ears for cursing in front of him. Thankfully this guy lets it go with only a sympathetic grimace.

"Look, it's late and I was just sitting down to supper. Why don't you join me and we can talk?"

Dean startles at the offer. "No! No, that's okay. I couldn't impose. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Padre."

"Don't be silly, Corporal, it's no imposition. Come along in before it gets cold."

The man’s shoulders are set in a way that means business, and although Dean’s instincts are screaming at him to retreat, his legs are aching with fatigue and stress, and it feels like forever since he's sat down on a seat that didn't rattle his bones and smell like his old gym socks.

"I'm Father Richards by the way. Ben Richards." Richards leads Dean inside and straight towards the kitchen. Dean follows warily. For a house that he knows so well, the old place has an unfamiliar air.

"I'm Dean. Dean Winchester." Dean fills in the expected reply, stopping short when he enters the kitchen. The blast of warmth from the stove is welcome, but the sparkling clean workspace and plain cream walls are like a slap in the face. There should be faded wallpaper dotted with crayon drawings of Noah’s Ark, stick figured disciples and nativity scenes drawn by generations of Sunday school kids. There should be a crucifix hanging by the window and a gun hidden in the pine bread bin that’s no longer there.

Richards doesn't notice Dean's discomfort, or at least doesn't comment on it, just bustles around the kitchen, grabbing an extra plate and cutlery, before serving up a generous helping of fish pie straight from the oven. "I'm not much of a cook, but thankfully Mrs. Miller dropped this off earlier. She's the biggest gossip in the county but, boy, the woman makes a means fish pie." The priest grins at Dean as he places the plate on the table, tipping his head towards it wordlessly. Dean stands stiffly in the doorway, bag handles gripped tight in his hand.

"Come on Dean, put your bag down and take a load off. Just for a while. You look like you could use some home cooking, and Lord knows I have enough."

It takes a minute for Dean to relax enough to comply. To drop his bag by the door and pull out a chair at the table.

Richards grabs a couple of beers from his refrigerator, popping the lids before sitting down. "I’m guessing you're old enough?" he asks Dean, handing him a bottle before taking a draw of his own.

"I...yeah, I'm twenty-three." Dean squints at him in surprise. He feels so damn old sometimes that he forgets how young he actually is.

The pastor urges Dean to eat before enthusiastically tucking into his own plate of food, keeping up a steady stream of one-sided conversation as he goes.

Dean's attention drifts as the man rambles on. He works his way slowly, methodically through the plate of food in front him, knowing he should eat, but barely tasting a mouthful. The plate's still three quarters full, his beer almost gone by the time he notices Ben Richards is staring at him.

"Dean? You doing okay there?"

Dean shakes his head clear then slaps a sheepish smile on his face. "Yeah, sure. Sorry, I guess I zoned out, huh."

"That's okay. I was just asking how it was you knew Pastor Murphy?"

"Oh," Dean says, setting down the fork he's holding mid-air, and picking up his almost empty beer bottle instead, rolling it absently in his hand. "He is... _was_ a friend of my dad's. We, my brother and I, we spent a bit of time here as kids, I guess."

Actually, the first time they came to Blue Earth, Dean was just a baby. He can't even remember it. Apparently he threw up in spectacular fashion all over Pastor Jim, covered him head to toe in pea-purée colored vomit. It was the stuff of Winchester legend, rehashed and laughed over every time they visited, much to Dean's embarrassment. It's not like he deliberately projectile vomited over a man of the cloth. He was barely even a year old. Sam liked to tease him about it though. But then Sam liked to tease him about everything. That's what big brothers did. He teased Dean about his sticky out ears, his bow legs, the freckles that ran rampant all over his body. Sam teased him for looking like a girl with his long eyelashes and blonde hair that curled down around the collar of his shirt when Dad forgot to cut it.

Heaven help anyone else that was stupid enough to tease Dean about any of those things, though. Sam busted more than one nose in Dean's defense over the years.

"And your family didn't know that he'd passed?" Richards nudges Dean gently out of his silent musing.

"I haven't spoken to them in a while," Dean admits, a heaviness growing in his chest as he hears the words aloud. "That's kind of why I was looking for Pastor Jim. I thought he might know how I could get in touch with them."

"I'm sorry, Dean. I really am." Richards looks at Dean with far too much sympathy in his eyes for Dean's comfort. The beer bottle rocks when Dean drops it back on to the table as he jerks to his feet.

"Thank you for the meal, Father. I appreciate the kindness."

"Why don't you sit back down and let me fetch you some apple pie and coffee." Richards stands up too and Dean stumbles backwards despite the obvious lack of threat from the man.

"No, I don't want to trouble you. I really should get back on the road."

"Son, you've no car and there are no more buses out of here tonight. It's late and you're exhausted. I have this big old house, plenty of food and a spare bed."

"I'm fine." Dean argues. _"I'm fine."_

"Dean, you're sleeping on your feet. Let me help, please."

"Why? Why would you help me?"

Richards tilts his head at Dean. "It's what I'm here to do, Dean; help people."

"But you don't even know me." Dean doesn't know why he's arguing. It's not like he wants to trudge back out into the cold to hunt down a safe place to sleep. But he's not accustomed to help being offered so freely, not without strings.

"I'm not blind, Dean. I know a good man when I see one."

Dean shakes his head. Just because he's wearing a uniform doesn't make him a good man. Or an honest man. It doesn't mean anyone should trust him. Put their faith in him.

"And any friend of Pastor Jim's is a friend of mine. He wouldn't send you back out into the streets at this time of year, would he? He'd box my ears for sure if I did. Now why don't I heat us both up a slice of pie?"

"You knew Pastor Jim?" Dean says in surprise.

"I grew up around here." Roberts confesses with a rueful grin. "Jim Murphy boxed my ears more than once. I wasn't what you’d call an angelic child."

Dean looks pointedly at the white collar around the priest’s neck. "I find that hard to believe."

"Trust me, Dean," Roberts laughs. "If it wasn't for Pastor Jim I'd have been more likely to end up behind bars than doing the Lord's work. The man was a saint."

And yeah, Dean agrees wholeheartedly with that. Any man who could not only put up with John Winchester and his sons, but actually befriend them certainly deserves a sainthood.

The pie isn't amazing; the pastry dry and the fruit soggy, but it's the best Dean's had for a while, and it slides down his throat with an ease borne of familiarity. He manages to eat almost half a slice, but despite the accompanying coffee, he's mostly asleep before he admits defeat. He hits the head then lets Roberts show him to the guest room, although Dean's feet take him there automatically anyway. The twin beds are the same as Dean remembers, the bed covers different; plain blue blankets instead of threadbare patchwork quilts. The room seems smaller. He dumps his bag on the floor, and crashes out on Sammy's bed without so much as taking off his boots.

 

Exhaustion and the comfort of sleeping in a safe warm bed ensure that Dean sleeps soundly. But that also leads to dreams, and nightmares. To iron bars, and rusted knives, red tinged dirt, and white hot pokers. To begging, and pleading and Victor's face twisting in agony. To pain, and blood, and screaming...

Dean wakes up, heart-racing and sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his back, screams still echoing through his head. One small mercy, this time at least his throat isn't sore which suggests the screaming was just in his dreams. Ignoring the tremble in his knees, Dean climbs out of bed, and grabs his hold-all before quietly slipping out of the bedroom. He's half-tempted to sneak out of the house before Richards wakes up, but after the kindness the man’s shown him it'd be a dick move and he knows Pastor Jim would be pissed at him, plus Dean feels and probably smells like dried-up shit and desperately needs a shower and a shave.

The bathroom has not changed at all. Unfortunately. The shower is the same old rickety contraption it was back when Dean was a kid, and by the time he finally remembers the knack to making the temperature tolerable without reducing to the water flow to a trickle, his skin is tingling with the cold.

Dean manages to avoid looking in the mirror above the ancient avocado-green sink until it's time to shave the scruff from his face. Towel wrapped tight around his bony hips, and wash kit in one hand, Dean wipes the condensation from the glass with his arm and tries not to feel revolted by the reflection he reveals. He might be scrubbed-pink clean after his shower, but he still looks like hell; gaunt and hollow-eyed. Haunted. Shaving with a cheap plastic razor and shaky hands doesn't help much, but at least he's trying.

He shoves his uniform, wrinkled and sour with dried in sweat, in his hold-all, not caring that he’ll never be wearing it again. That part of his life —however much he loved it— is done. Sentimentality won't change anything.

Dressed in jeans cinched round his waist with a belt that he had to punch extra holes through, an old PT shirt and a hoody he's owned forever, Dean shoves his feet back in his boots, grabs his bag and heads down to the kitchen.

Richards is already there, a ratty dressing gown wrapped around him and a mug of coffee in his hand. Dean's not surprised, despite the early hour; Pastor Murphy was an early riser too. And his taste in robes was no better.

"Coffee?"

Well, that's one thing that Dean won't refuse. "Please, yeah."

Richards gestures for Dean to take a seat while he grabs a mug from the cupboard. "Sorry about the old shower. It's a little temperamental."

"Nah it's fine." Dean says accepting the coffee and resting his ass anxiously on the edge of the seat. "It was just the same when I was a kid."

"You stay here often when you were a kid?" Richards asks, settling back down on a chair, legs stretched easily in front of him.

"Maybe a couple of weeks a year. My dad, he moved around a lot. For work. Sometimes he left us here when he couldn't take us with him."

"That couldn't have been much fun."

"It wasn't so bad." Dean shrugs. "My brother, he was pretty good at finding things for us to do." Dean's knee starts to bounce when he thinks back to the time he spent here with Sam. The long summer days spent catching frogs down at the creek, or trying to find the best hiding place to make a den. Normal things, that normal kids did every summer, but stick out like a shining beacon for Dean in the grey mire of constant traveling and endless arguments that were the staple of his childhood.

"So Dean, what now?" Dean's attention snaps back to the present, and a weary sigh escapes unbidden from his lips, because hell, isn't that the big question. Plan A was a bust. Plan B is a long shot, but right now it's the only idea he has left.

"There's a guy, another friend of my dad, or he was until they had a falling out. I thought I'd head out his way, see if he'd at least talk to me."

"You can't call him?" Roberts asks. "Email?"

Dean snorts at the thought. "Yeah, I don't think Bobby is the kind of guy that has an internet connection."

"Or a phone number?"

"Well, yeah, I guess he does, I don't know it though." And Dean doesn't have a cellphone. He'll pick one up at some point he guesses, it's just not been a priority. It's not like he has a long list of people to call.

"You want me to try and find his number for you?" Richards asks.

"Sure, why not?" Dean shrugs. There's no harm in trying he guesses.

Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard doesn't have a website which is no surprise to Dean, but Richard's does find an address and telephone number online. He even hands Dean his fancy cellphone and leaves the room so Dean can call the man in private. It's not eight in the morning yet, but as far as Dean recalls Bobby wasn't one for long lies.

Dean stares at the phone a long while, planning on what to say, preparing himself for Bobby to tell him to take a hike. His fingers are trembling when he punches in the number, his heart pounding as the ring tone chirps in his ear.

"Singer's Salvage?" The voice is hangover-rough, and achingly familiar. Dean licks his lips, his mouth suddenly bone dry.

"Is someone there?

Dean can't do anything but look at the cellphone.

"Hello? Hello? Damn idjit kids!"

Bobby hangs up before Dean comes close to finding the right words to say. He smacks himself on the forehead with the cellphone in frustration, heat crawling up his neck at his own stupidity.

"Fucking moron," he mumbles, slamming the phone down on the table, and curling his fingers into his palms, nails biting blood-deep. "Fucking chickenshit moron."

"Everything okay?"

Dean jumps in his seat, startled by Richard’s voice behind him. The pastor walks around the table and pulls out a chair opposite Dean. His dressing gown has been replaced by slacks and a sweater, but his ruffled hair still doesn't look as though it's seen a comb.

"Yeah," Dean coughs, unclenches his fingers and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Yeah, fine. Thanks."

"You talk to your friend?"

"Yeah," Dean says, unable to meet the pastor's eyes, staring down at the table instead, at the long grains of wood, smooth and dark with age. "I… uh... I'm gonna head out to see him I guess." At least, if nothing else, he knows Bobby is there. And maybe it's best to turn up in person. It's harder to throw someone out than hang up a phone. On the other hand, it is easier to shoot someone in the face when they're standing on your porch.

"Sorry?" Dean realizes with a start that the pastor is talking to him and shifts uneasily on his chair, his eyes darting up to the other man's face.

Richards looks across at him, a worried frown pulling at his lips. "I said at least let me make you breakfast first if you're planning on hitting the road."

"No." Hit with a sudden wave of panic by the man's kindness, one that’s as inexplicable as it is real, Dean jerks to his feet. He knows he's acting like an idiot. Knows that Richards probably thinks he's cracked. Truth be told, he's probably right. "No, you've done more than enough, Pastor. I'm grateful for all your help."

"Kid—"

"I'm not a kid," Dean snaps, flushing with embarrassment as soon as he does it. He knows he's acting like a complete dick, but he can't explain the sweat that's suddenly gathering between his shoulders or the way his heart is trying to march double time right out of his chest.

"Dean—"

The pastor's gentle tone, his outstretched hand just makes Dean feel worse. Grabbing his bag, and mumbling apologies he backs out of the room so quickly that he trips and stumbles, almost landing on his ass. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Thanks for the bed and the shower and... thanks... just thanks."

The pastor's concerned gaze burns into his back as he all but runs out the door, but that only makes Dean run faster.

 

Dean spends the two hour wait for the next bus out of town berating himself for acting like a goddamn freak. And the next five hours and two buses getting to Sioux Falls doing much the same, as well as screwing himself up into a tense ball of nerves at the thought of what might happen when he finally arrives. By the time the bus draws into the station, he's almost talked himself into a panic attack. Which is fucking ridiculous. If his father could see him now. Well fuck, if his father could see him now, he'd do what he'd done a hundred times before; tell him to man the hell up. And then Sam would start bitching at his dad. And then his dad would yell at Sam. And before you knew it John would be storming out of the motel room and Sam would be storming into the bathroom to get away from Dean. And Dean would be left sitting alone on a sad-sprung bed with more evidence of how much he was tearing the family apart.

Maybe he shouldn't try to find Sam. Or his dad. Maybe they’re doing better without him. Honestly, it’s for hard for Dean to imagine any scenario where they wouldn't be doing better without him. That's why he left after all. One of the reasons anyway. So maybe he's being selfish, but fuck it, he needs to know. Needs to see them one last time. After six years he finally needs say goodbye.

It's a few miles from the bus station out to Bobby's junk yard, but the directions the ticket office woman, kind eyes and nicotine-stained teeth, had given him were concise, and even without them Dean's feet seem to know the way, the road familiar in a way that's more instinctual than remembered.

The junkyard isn't any prettier than Dean recalls. It must be ten years since he's been out here, and those ten years haven't been kind to the weathered sign hanging precariously from the battered wire fence, or the rusting piles of cars that lead up to Bobby's house.

The dogs are barking up a storm by the time he reaches the porch, and if Dean didn't know they were kept on chains out here, he'd have stopped half a mile back.

"What the hell's rattled your cages you stupid mutts?" Before Dean’s foot even hits the first step, Bobby blusters out of the house, shotgun in hand, and dirt-encrusted trucker cap pulled low, a dog following slowly on his heels, this one untethered. Dean skids to a sudden halt, dust billowing around his boots. He tightens his fingers around his backpack, and tries to ignore the frightened beat of his heart.

"Hey, Bobby."

The first time they met, when Dean was little more than a toddler with his hand clasping at his brother's leg, he’d addressed the imposing sight of Bobby Singer with a gap-toothed lisped Sir. That soon graduated to Mr. Singer, and for a few skinned-knee and frog-catching years it was Uncle Bobby, but by the time John had dragged them away for the last time, Dean sniffling into his jacket sleeve, Sam red eared and bitching, and Bobby fumbling with his shotgun, both boys had settled on plain old Bobby.

The man's not changed much. There's a little more grey in his beard, a few more surly wrinkles pulling at his mouth, and maybe a bit more paunch beneath his flannel shirt, but the sharp intelligence in his eyes is exactly the same.

The barrel of the gun in Bobby's hand tips down to face the ground. The dog growls low in its chest but doesn't move. "Dean? Dean Winchester? Is that you, boy?"

Dean had half-expected Bobby not to remember him. To have to talk his way into the man's house, his confidence, so he's almost taken aback by Bobby's recognition, and he's ashamed of the little-boy lost tremor in his voice when he manages to stutter out a wary, "Bobby?"

Bobby drops the gun and Dean flinches at the recklessness as it hits the porch with a clatter, but then he's being engulfed into a hug that almost yanks him out of his boots. This isn't the welcome that Dean was expecting.

"Shit, boy, where the hell have you been?" Bobby grabs his biceps and holds him at arm’s length, eyes sweeping over Dean like he can't quite believe what he's seeing. He drags Dean back into another hug, clapping him on the back with a heartiness that almost shakes something loose in Dean's chest.

Bobby doesn't give Dean the chance to reply, maybe he knows Dean's story won't be a quick one. "Holy shit, boy. It sure is good to see you. Come on in and—"

"Bobby," Dean cuts the man off before he manhandles Dean up the stairs of the porch, untangling himself from Bobby's arms and putting some breathing space between them. "I don't want to intrude, just turning up on your doorstep like this out of the blue.”

"Intrude," Bobby glares at Dean, and Dean can almost feel the phantom slap to the back of his head. "Don't be an idjit, boy. Do you have any idea how damn worried we've been about you? How goddamn relieved I am to see you standing here. Even if you look like a gust of wind could blow you over. Jesus! Go on, git your skinny ass in the house before Rumsfeld starts chewing on you."

Looking at the expression on Bobby's face, Dean knows better than to argue. He hefts his bag back up onto his shoulder, takes a deep breath and follows him into the house, stomps pointedly over the doormat with the demon trap hidden below it. Rumsfeld huffs an impatient breath and follows him inside the house, and Dean tries not to remember playing with the black and tan bundle of fluff when he really wasn't much more than a puppy himself. The twelve years since then have left scars on both of them.

In theory, the clutter should put him on edge —no room for clutter in the marines, or under John Winchester's roof— but instead it's comforting, the meandering piles of dust-covered books a familiar pathway. Dean follows Bobby through to the kitchen without a word, doesn't comment on the empty liquor bottles littering the table top, or the moldy smell that hits him when Bobby opens the refrigerator door. He takes the proffered bottle of water with a wry smile, gulps down a mouthful and hands it back, the holy water stale where it hits his gums. "You want to give me the silver knife now too, get it over with?"

Bobby slips a slim silver knife out from his pocket with a sheepish smile. "Can't be too careful kid, you know how it is." Dean doesn't take offence, knows too well how suspicious old hunters are. It's how they grow to be old hunters in the first place. He winces at the sting of blood beading around the knife, wipes the blade on his jeans and hands it back to Bobby who swaps it for an almost clean towel that Dean presses to his forearm. The cut is shallow enough that the bleeding grows sluggish after just a minute.

"Sit down, kid." Bobby gestures to a rattletrap chair beside the table, opens the refrigerator door again and produces two beers, popping the lids with his callous-numb thumb. Dean does as he's told, hand dropping to pet the Doberman's solid head that immediately drops into his lap. The oversized mutt always did have the weird illusion that he was a lap dog. "Looks like old Rumsfeld's missed you too," Bobby notes, handing Dean a cold bottle. "Shit, Dean," Bobby leans back against the kitchen sink and drags his hand across his beard. "It's good to see you. You sure know how to disappear, don't you?"

Dean tries to drown the flutter of guilt in his belly with a swig of beer, cheap but cold against his throat, and focuses his attention on Rumsfeld's grey-streaked fur.

"Does your daddy know you're here?"

One knot of fear releases in Deans chest. Another one stays locked up tight. Breathing doesn't come any easier.

"Does Sam?"

Dean exhales with the soul-deep relief of man granted a last minute pardon. He drops the beer bottle on to the table with a thud, his hand trembling too hard to control. "They're alive?" His voice betrays his fear with a whisper. "They're okay? Dad and Sammy? Sammy's okay?"

"Christ," Bobby says, pity swimming in his eyes. "You Winchesters are a real screwed up bunch. Yes. Yes, they're alive. Why the fuck haven't you contacted them, you damn fool?"

There are tears welling in Dean's eyes and he's so fucking embarrassed that it's hard to speak. He shakes his head instead, swallows hard.

"Well," Bobby says, after a moment's awkward silence. "I guess you had your reasons."

Dean did. He does. But none of them are good.

"You going to get in touch with them now? Because I gotta tell you boy, those two would be mighty relieved to know you're still alive and kicking. And I ain't happy about lying to them."

Head jerking back up, Dean looks at Bobby through damp eyelashes. "I'm not asking you to lie to them, Bobby. I'm gonna... gonna get back in touch. I just don't know how. I don't know where they are."

"You ain't got their numbers?" Bobby's eyebrows squeeze together, and he tugs at his cap.

"No," Dean admits. "I ain't even got a phone."

"Well, I guess that makes getting in touch a mite hard. So, you don't know where they are?"

Dean lifts up his beer to wet his dried out mouth, drops it again quick smart when his shaking hand clinks the bottle against his front teeth. "Not a clue. I thought maybe, you might know. I mean, I know you and dad had words—"

Bobby snorts at that, no doubt remembering the night that he ran John Winchester off with his loaded shotgun.

"—but I thought you might at least have heard where Sam was."

"Dean," Bobby starts, fingers back scritching at his beard again, and Dean's heart skip-hop-jumps in his chest, expecting bad news. "Sam... Sam stays in town. He's less than an hours' walk from here."

The silence in the room hums loud in Dean's ears. It takes his brain a full minute for Bobby's words to process into something that starts to make sense, longer for his tongue to unstick from the back of his teeth. "He's in Sioux Falls?"

"Sure is. After he finished up college—"

"He went to college?" Dean's glad. He is. It's what he wanted for his big brother. Sammy was way too smart to waste his life following John Winchester around. Or to babysit Dean forever.

"Yeah," Bobby nods, eyes suddenly wary. "He went after he and your dad... well, after they killed the yellow-eyed son of a bitch that killed your mother."

Dean's breath punches out of him in a rush. The room sways, dips rollercoaster wild underneath him, his belly churns and bile crawls into the back of his throat.

They spent years hunting down that bastard; Dean's whole damn life bar six fairytale months that he can’t even remember. His dad spent more time devising plans and theories, tracking down clues and will-o-the-wisp leads than he ever spent making sure Dean ate or Sam had pants that fit his beanstalk legs.

So, in the end it turned out all it took for Sam and his dad to finally find and kill the hell-born bastard was for Dean to man up and leave. That sounds about right. Dean always figured mom dying in his nursery was his fault. Figured Dad knew it too. So it makes sense that Dean disappearing into thin air like he never existed at all was the answer to everyone's problems.

"Dean?"

Rumsfeld's whining into Dean's thigh, slobber soaking into worn denim.

"Dean?"

"Yes, Sir?" Dean snaps back from the precipice of self-loathing with an automated response that's as ingrained as blinking.

"Maybe I should give your brother a call. Let him know you're here. I'm sure he can explain everything a lot better than me."

Bobby looks worried, his fingers drumming nervously on the neck of his bottle. Dean smiles, or tries to at least, does his best to look less broken than he really is. "Na, Bobby, don't do that."

Bobby's attention jumps between Dean and the old phone on the wall.

"Please, Bobby. Just let me... just give me some time. Please. It's been a long day." That's no word of a lie. It's been a long day. A long week. A long month. A long fucking life. Too long. Bobby doesn't seem sure, eyes the phone like it's a fucking life preserver in the middle of shark-infested seas.

"Shit, Bobby," Dean shoves his chair back and staggers to his feet, his knees popping like a fifty year old, much to Rumsfeld's displeasure. "What the fuck ever. If you're that desperate to get shot of me, I'll just get out of your hair now. Sorry to have bothered you. Tell Sam to—"

"Boy, sit your dumb ass down right the hell now," Bobby snaps, smacking his bottle down glass-crack heavy against the counter.

Dean ignores the bluster. And Rumsfeld's whining. Bends down, grabs his bag, and storms out of the room towards the front door, shoulders hunched and feet protesting inside his worn boots.

"Dean Winchester, get your ass back here!"

Dean's hand is on the door handle by the time Bobby's fingers clamp down onto his shoulder. He twists and ducks out of the man's hold, spine slamming into the door and heart jumping into his throat.

One look at Dean's frantic-eyed face and Bobby takes a step back, hands held up in front of him. "Okay kid, okay. Let's just calm down."

"I am calm." Dean grinds out through tight lips. It's an obvious lie but Bobby doesn't call him on it.

"Good, so you'll stop acting like a teenage drama queen then. I'm getting too old for this shit."

Dean rolls his eyes, but can't quite persuade his back to unpeel from the door.

"Okay then, so I'm gonna go make some grub." Bobby says, shuffling back another few steps, almost tripping over Rumsfeld who's wandered out to see what all the fuss is about. "Mac and cheese right? You always loved mac and cheese when you were a tyke. Anyways, you just come on through when you're ready."

And then Dean's left leaning against the door while Bobby rattles about in the kitchen, trying to tempt him inside with the promise of food like he's some mangy dog.

In the end, it’s not the smell of melting cheese that finally lures Dean back into the kitchen; his appetite disappeared months back, it’s more the thought that Bobby could be on the phone to Sam without Dean knowing it. It's not that he doesn't want to see his brother. That's Dean's whole damn reason for being here in the first place. It's just that he wants, needs, to see Sam on his terms. When he's had time to process a little. Dean needs a little control. For once in his life.

Bobby isn't near the phone when Dean walks into the kitchen, and he doesn't as much as mention Sam's name or his dad, until after Dean's managed to force down half a bowl of mac and cheese, pushing the rest away. He doesn't even ask Dean any questions, rambles on instead about hunters that Dean only vaguely recalls, and hunts that are more slapstick than horror.

It's not late, barely nineteen hundred hours, but Dean's exhausted. It seems to be his permanent state these days. He could nod off right there, butt half-numb on the kitchen chair, but he's not going to, pinches his thigh to wake himself up. He's not an idiot. He knows without a doubt that as soon as Bobby gets the chance, he's gonna be on the phone to Sam, tattle-telling about Dean's miraculous reappearance. And he's just not ready.

"Do you..." Dean clears his throat with a rasp-dry cough, that makes him realize he hasn't spoken for the past hour. "Sam's address. Can I have it? Please?"

"Why don't I just give him a call?" Bobby suggests.

Dean feels like banging his head on the table. "Bobby, please. Just let me do this my way. I swear I'm gonna go see him soon. Tomorrow."

Instead of agreeing, Bobby blurts out the question that Dean's sure must have been plaguing him. "What happened to you, kid?"

Dean shakes his head and sighs, knows he has to say something. "I grew up."

Bobby scowls at the non-answer. "Dean, you were never a kid, not really. Not the way your dad dragged you boys around the country."

"Yeah, well..." Dean shrugs. "Didn't mean I didn't have to grow the fuck up."

In the end Bobby scrawls down the address on a scrap of paper, and hands it to Dean, grudgingly. He tries to persuade Dean to at least phone Sam, tries harder to persuade him to stay, to talk, to rest, to sleep, to go lie down in the spare room, his and Sam's room. Dean refuses politely, then leaves before the comfortable warmth seeps into his blood. Bobby's still trying to convince him to stay right up until Dean has one foot out the door, then finally admitting defeat, Bobby drags him into a hug. Bobby makes him promise to come back. Dean says he will, chest tight at the maybe lie. Mumbles his thanks. Hopes Bobby can hear the ‘I love you’ hidden there.

He walks away without looking back, forces his feet to keep on moving despite the ache climbing up his legs, knowing that Bobby is going to call Sam before too long. Probably before Dean has made it off his property. Bobby's conscience always did get the better of him. That's why he came to blows so often with John Winchester. That's why when eventually Dean sleeps, it's in Falls Park, carefully hidden under the cover of dark-shadowed trees, head pillowed on his bag, and jacket curled tight around him rather than in the relative comfort of Bobby's spare room. He wants to see Sam when he's ready. And right now he needs time to breathe. To think.

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter Two**

 

First light sees Dean sneaking out of the park like he was never there; cold-numb and stiff-limbed, but clear headed. Now he knows for sure that his dad and Sam are fine, knows he can find the closure he's been waiting for, he's ready to deal with his shit and move on.

He stops off at the first McDonalds he comes to. Orders a black coffee, his stomach turning at the idea of food, and sits in a quiet corner letting the heat bleeding through the paper cup warm his fingers. He sits for as long as he comfortably can, ignoring the curious looks he gets from employees and customers alike. Before he leaves, he visits the restroom, takes the opportunity to wash up and do what he can with his hair. He doesn't want to turn up at Sam's looking like he slept rough. There's not much he can do about the bags under his eyes.

He has to ask for directions twice before he finds Sam's street. It's a quiet neighborhood, not what Dean expects. Not that he had any real idea of what to expect. The houses are kind of pretty, well looked after, fresh paint and neat lawns. The kind of houses Dean would daydream about living in when he was a kid stuck in the backseat of the Impala watching normal life pass by. He'd imagine having his own bedroom to sleep in. A wall where could pin posters. A shelf where he could line up the trophies he'd have the chance to win when he wasn't skipping from school to school. His own bed to sleep in, his own pillow. A dad that came home every night.

It's not until a young woman with a pushchair jogs past him, a black Labrador bouncing along at her side, that the thought strikes Dean out of the blue, that Sam might not live here alone. That he might have a little family tucked away safe inside; a wife, a kid or two, the dog that he always wanted. It should have occurred to him earlier really. Sam's given up hunting—presumably—he's a college graduate with his own house. The chances that he's in a relationship are pretty high. It shouldn't be a terrible thought. He doesn't want his brother to be alone, after all. Above everything, Sammy deserves to be loved. To be happy. Still, Dean's stomach turns sour at the idea.

The woman with the baby looks back at Dean over her shoulder, suspicion clear in her narrowed eyes. Dean smiles back reassuringly, trying not to look like a creep. When the woman tugs the dog closer to her, he suspects he doesn't succeed.

Dean looks back at the house, at its pale green walls and bright curtains, and tries to imagine Sammy living here. It's hard to reconcile his big brother the bad-ass hunter with the kind of domestic bliss the house represents. But then Dean hasn't seen Sam in six years, it figures that Sam has moved on. He can't help but wonder how much killing the thing that murdered their mom has changed him. If it's helped heal the hurt that always lay so close to the surface, bleeding out at every opportunity.

Before pushchair woman decides she needs to call the cops on the scruffy guy cluttering up her nice neighborhood, Dean makes himself move, steps over the low gate that does nothing to protect Sam's house.

He walks up to the front porch, swallows hard as he looks at the door, but in the end he doesn't ring the doorbell, can't quite raise his hand to push that button. He couldn't really say why.

Dean peers over the top of a tall privacy fence closing off the backyard before clambering over it. The back yard is as neat as the front; freshly mown grass and pruned greenery. There's a patch of earth, maybe six by six, in the corner that Dean suspects could be the beginnings of a vegetable garden. A large dark stained deck leads to a sliding door which, as Dean creeps carefully towards the house, his back clinging to the fence, he notes is open. And from inside, against the quiet morning air, he can hear the unmistakable voice of his big brother.

"You goddamn promised me, Bobby! You promised he'd show up."

It's the first time Dean's heard Sam's voice in years; it's a little different than he remembers, deeper, smoother, but he'd still recognize it anywhere. Goosebumps break out across his skin at the overwhelming familiarity of it.

"I don't care. You should have stopped him."

Dean freezes at the edge of the deck, his fingers wrapped knuckle white around the strap of his hold-all.

"I know. I know he is. But shit, Bobby, what if he disappears again? What if he just takes off? What? Well fuck, I don't know, you could have fucking handcuffed him to the table until I got there. Or slipped something into his drink."

Sam's voice is strung tight with anger.

"No, I'm not overreacting. Jesus Christ, Bobby. I thought he was fucking dead! Do you get that? I thought my baby brother was dead!"

Dean swallows hard. Picks apart the spit and fire anger in Sam's voice and finds the fear and desperation flaming it. He takes a step on to the deck, two, three, edges closer, the solid wood creaking just a little below his boots, probably in complaint at the dried mud flaking onto its clean surface.

Sam's voice dips in apology. "Shit. Yeah, I'm sorry. I'm just... well, y'know. What? Yeah, sure, of course. Yeah, I'll call you later, Bobby, thanks."

Closing the final few steps to the open door, Dean heaves in a deep calming breath, braces his hand on the side of the frame and peers inside.

He expects to see Sam. He doesn't expect to see the man wrapped around him. They're standing in the kitchen, Sam's butt resting against the edge of the stove, his friend facing him so all Dean can see is his back, and messy dark hair. "I'm sure he'll turn up," the guy says, and hell, but his voice is low pitched; gravelly and smooth at the same time like a top shelf whisky splashed over crushed ice. "He's a big boy, Sam, a grown man now. The important thing is he's alive, and here, in town. And he wants to see you. This is all good news." 

Any thought, secret silent prayer, that Dean might have had about Sam and this guy just being friends is blown sky high when the dude reaches up, tangles his fingers in Sam's hair and drags his mouth down for a kiss.

Dean's heart, splintered into brittle shards, falls from his chest. The air in his lungs disappears. But suddenly breathing seems pointless anyway. Dean stares, grips the edge of the slider so tight his knuckles burn. He doesn't make a noise. Not intentionally at least. But when his knees give way, collapse like someone's kicked his legs right out from under him, he stumbles forward gracelessly, body pitching to the side, bag dropping to the floor with a thud as he crashes through the door and slams into Sam's wall.

Dean rights himself quickly, face flaring red in embarrassment. Sam and his... his _partner_ jump apart, Sam's reflexes still proving hunter quick as he shoves the other guy behind him. They stare at each across the room, Sam's eyes flickering from shock to recognition and back to shock in the time it takes for Dean's heart to slam back to life.

"Dean?" Sam starts towards him, hand outstretched. "Jesus, Dean."

A big part of Dean wants to rush towards Sam, wants to cling to him the way he did when he was an exhausted six year old with a crappy dad and no mom, and a teacher that didn't understand. His adrenaline-spiked legs and betrayed heart have other ideas though and without thinking it through, he's lurching backwards, tripping over his abandoned bag and running out the sliding door, feet picking up pace with every stride he takes.

"Dean!" Sam yells from behind him, and Dean can feel his brother's long legs eating up the distance between them, and the fence is right in front of him. He's half over, pushing himself up, splinters digging into his palm, when Sam crashes into him, tackles him down, pins him to the ground.

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam hauls him around so they're face to face, Sam's arms, impossibly thick with muscle, caging him in. Dean feels every place where their bodies are pressed together like a hot brand crackling through his skin. “What the fuck are you doing? Jesus Christ, Dean." Slowly the tight-lined anger in Sam's face melts away, and that's worse because his eyes—and Dean forgot how many colors pooled together in those eyes—fill with tears. And then Dean's being hauled to his feet, yanked into a hug, smothered against Sam's chest.

"God, Dean," Sam's breath hitches. "I can't believe you're here. I thought... I thought—"

And then, Jesus, the world shifts again as Sam shoves him away and a flare of pain erupts in Dean's face, ricochets through his skull and he's back on his ass on the ground.

"I thought you were fucking dead, you asshole! You fucking left us. Left me! Just disappeared. How could you do that? Where the fuck did you go? Six years, Dean. Six goddamn years! I didn't know if you were even fucking alive!"

Dean rolls onto his side, his weight on his elbow, spits a pink-tinged glob onto Sam's perfect green grass, catches his breath before pushing slowly to his feet, cradling his jaw in his hand. He knows Sam pulled his punch because Dean would be out cold if he hadn’t, but fuck, it still hurts like a mother. He glares at Sam who's in full on rant mode, yelling at Dean like he's four years old and wandered off at the store.

"Seriously, Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Sam, stop. This isn't what you wanted."

Dean's attention shifts to the guy from before, who's now standing at Sam's side, hand resting on his elbow.

"This is none of your business, Cas," Sam snaps, and what the fuck kind of name is Cas?

The guy, Cas, doesn't seem bothered by Sam's sharp retort, in fact, he steps up right in front of Sam, gets in his face. "Sam, we talked about this... about how you would handle this."

Dean blinks at that, discomfited at the thought of being discussed by someone he doesn't even know.

To his amazement, Sam, stubborn, headstrong Sam, backs down. Combs his fingers through his hair, closes his eyes and inhales deeply before blowing his breath out slowly through parted lips. When he opens his eyes again it's to look at Dean. "I'm sorry. Will you come back inside? To talk?"

Dean nods, that's what he came here for after all. He might as well bite the bullet. He follows Sam into the house. Sam's friend, partner... whoever, bringing up the rear. Sam goes straight to the big fridge freezer in the kitchen, produces a bag of frozen peas and tosses it to Dean. "For your face." He explains, and nods towards a chair. When Dean hesitates Sam walks across to the table, pulls a chair of his own out, sits down and looks expectantly at Dean. Dean glances across the kitchen to where Cas is standing, his face carefully impassive, before eventually copying his brother and dropping down onto the chair, pressing the frozen peas to his jaw.

"So," Sam says, pushing his hair away from his face and leaning back in his chair. "Hi, Dean."

He's trying to hide it, but Sam's still pissed as hell. And Dean should have expected that. He's always had a temper like their dad. All bite and bluster. A short fuse that burns bright. He's never hit Dean before though. Not in anger. Not a sucker punch.

"Are you okay?"

Dean licks his lips and nods.

Sam's eyes narrow. "You lost your voice again?"

Dean's eyes widen. He hadn't even realized that he hadn't spoken a word yet. He always did go quiet when he was upset, not like Sam and Dad who thought they could shout every problem into submission. "No," he bites back. "No." Which isn't exactly a convincing rebuttal, but shit, six years, and now Sam's in front of him, bigger and more beautiful than ever, and every wrong feeling Dean had when he was sixteen years old has come rushing back with a vengeance.

"I didn't think you were a homophobe," Sam says from nowhere, which startles Dean into a laugh. Because that shit's fucking hilarious. Christ, dad obviously never told Sam about the time he caught Dean making out with Derek Banner behind the back of the motel. Poor kid almost pissed himself when John Winchester swept down on them like an avenging angel. So did Dean.

"I'm not. I'm really not."

Sam doesn't look convinced; he's wearing a classic Sammy bitchface, one that Dean forgot even existed, and certainly not one he thought he could ever miss. "That's not why you flew out of here like the devil was on your tail? I mean, you came here to see me, right? That's why you were sneaking around out there. So why the fuck did you bolt?"

Dean sets the dripping bag of peas on the table, and wipes his hands on his thighs. "I just... I dunno. I was shocked, I guess, surprised, you never... it was always girls you brought back, never... I didn't think you swung this way."

The hard line of Sam's shoulders softens. "I swing both ways actually. But I guess you're right. Dating boys wasn't something I considered until after you left. Jesus, Dean, six fucking years!"

"I'm sorry," Dean plays with his fingers in his lap, looking up at Sam through his eyelashes. "I never meant to hurt you. I thought... I thought it would be better for everyone if I just disappeared." And he was right. The proof is sitting right in front of him. Alive and happy.

"How could you—" Sam explodes, but then takes a deep breath and starts again, controlled calmness. "Why would you think that? What did we do, what did I do to make you think that?"

"Nothing," Dean's quick to assure him. "You didn't do anything. It was me. It was all me."

"What was you?"

"Everything." Dean's knee starts to jitter nervously and he rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flitting around the room, from the honey bee shaped clock on the wall to the photos stuck to the refrigerator. "You and dad fighting. All the time. You not going to college because you had to babysit me."

"Dean," Sam protests, but Dean ploughs on regardless. "It's true. You could have left. Could have gotten out when you were eighteen but you stuck around because dad made you feel guilty for even thinking about leaving. But I wasn't worth it, Sam. I was dumb, and pathetic, and a freak. All my teachers knew it. Dad knew it too. I was just a big fucking burden to everyone. But I knew, _I knew_ , you'd never just dump my useless ass. So I did it for you."

Sam looks horrified. "God, Dean, you were never any of those things. And you definitely were never a burden. You were my little brother. You are my little brother, and... and I love you."

"Yeah, well you shouldn't," Dean can’t help spit back at him. "If it wasn't for me—"

"If it wasn't for you, what?" Sam presses him for an answer when Dean hesitates.

Dean stands up, his legs too restless to sit still. There's not much room to pace, Dean doesn't want to get too near the other guy, Cas, who's still standing by the door watching them, like he doesn't trust Dean not to flip out. Like Sam hasn't proved just how easily he can take Dean down if he did.

"If it wasn't for me, Mom would still be alive. Dad would still be a dad not a hunter. And you. You'd have a nice normal life. Would have had a normal childhood." Dean's had a lot of time to think this through. He knows now just how much his rotten existence infected the lives of everyone around him.

"That's bullshit, Dean, total bullshit. None of what happened was your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because you were just a baby when Mom died. Just an innocent kid."

"And if I'd never been born y'all would have had a picture perfect life. I just fucked everything up. That's all I ever do Sam. Right from day fucking one."

Sam shakes his head, pushes to his feet, hands resting palm down on the table, mouth set in a firm line. "That's not true. That demon, Dean, it made a deal with Mom. That's why it was in your nursery that night, so if it's anyone's fault, it was Mom's."

Dean stops and stares at his brother. According to Dad, according to Sam, Mom was perfect. Dean doesn't remember her at all, he was only six months old when she was killed after all, so everything he knows about her is through Dad or Sam. And neither of them were fond of talking about her. Dad had a couple of photos, cracked and faded with age that he'd slip out of his wallet and stare at for hours on end when he'd been drinking, so Dean knows she was pretty, with green eyes like his, and long blonde hair and a beautiful smile. He knows she made tomato rice soup for Sam, and she made Dad laugh. That she loved the Beatles, and made terrible cookies. He knows that everything good in Dad and Sam's life turned to ash in Dean's nursery.

He also knows that Sam, the Sam Dean remembers, would kill anyone who dared to say a bad word against Mary Winchester. "What are you talking about?"

Sam glances at Cas before turning his attention back Dean, there's something in his eyes that Dean doesn't recognize. Nervousness perhaps. "Why don't you sit back down?" He suggests, doing just that himself.

Dean ignores him. "What are you talking about?"

"It's a long story." Sam sighs, and scrubs his hand across his face. "And this isn't the way I wanted to tell you. Shit, Dean I haven't seen you for more than six years. Can't we talk about this later? You look exhausted. Fuck, quite honestly you look ill. Why don't you sit down for a while? Rest. Let me make you some food."

Dean doesn't want to rest and he sure as hell doesn't want food. He wants to know what the hell Sam is talking about. "Sam, tell me what you meant. Mom made a deal with a demon? That can't be true. I don't believe you."

"After you left," Sam's voice is hollow now when he speaks. "We spent months searching for you. Week after week driving across the country following leads that never panned out and thinking up ideas that just got crazier with time. About six months in we finally figured out that if you didn't want to be found, you'd make damn sure you weren't. And by that time Dad and I, fuck, we were close to killing each other, so we made a decision; we were gonna give it a year, a year to spend all our time and energy hunting down the thing that killed Mom, and then whatever happened after that we would quit hunting. Both of us. And move on."

They spent six months looking for Dean. That's about five and a half months longer than Dean figured they would.

"And that's what we did. We talked to everyone we could. Poured through every book we could find. Learned everything there was to know about demons. Even tracked down a gun, a colt, the colt. It was rumored to be able to kill demons with these special bullets. And then Pastor Jim called us. Asked us if we could come help him and another young priest deal with a suspected possession. And that's what did it. The demon that was possessing the teenager, it was a real bitch. Had already killed the kid's parents, shredded them with a hunting knife. But the priest, well he knew a thing or two about demons. He and Jim managed to trap her in a Solomon circle.

When we turned up, the black-eyed bitch inside that poor girl, well, she thought it was hilarious. She knew exactly who we were. The dumbass Winchesters who thought they could kill a demon. But she was scared, it was obvious, and when we started an exorcism, boy did she start to talk, spilled her damn guts. Told us all about her daddy, Azazel, about the deals he made. Told us how Mary, Mom, tried to kill him when he came to— Anyway, once the bitch swore that she'd told us everything we sent her evil ass straight back to hell. And afterwards, the girl that she was possessing, she managed to give us a lead on Azazel."

"And then you killed him?"

"It wasn't quite that easy. He moved around. A lot. And the yellow-eyed son of a bitch, well he was pissed at what we did to his daughter." Sam hesitates before continuing, his voice gentling. "Dean, Pastor Jim—"

"I know," Dean says simply, saving his brother the painful job of explaining.

Sam's nose wrinkles up in surprise, but he nods and continues. "Well, once we figured out the signs, we tracked him across Texas. Found him in a small town near the border. Shot the son of a bitch, right between the eyes. Made sure he was never coming back."

"So it's really over," Dean says almost to himself. It's hard to believe that Dad's quest for revenge, something that had eaten up Dean's whole childhood, was over.

Sam nods.

"And so what... you quit hunting? Went off to college? What about Dad?"

Sam's eyes flick towards Cas before returning to Dean again. "Yeah. I had a little help, encouragement. Cas helped me out a lot. If it wasn't for him... well, I don't like to think. And Dad… Dean, Dad's in Minnesota. He's, well shit, he's got family there."

That can't be right. The only family Dad has left is his boys.

"Listen,” Sam drags his fingers through his hair, a familiar nervous tick that does nothing to lessen Dean’s unease. “This was hard for me to get my head around too. Fuck, I was pissed as hell for a long time. But the fact is Dad has another kid."

Suddenly Dean really needs to sit down; his knees are very much in danger of giving way. He takes the few steps back to the kitchen chair and all but collapses on to it.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Dean nods, although he's so far from okay it's ridiculous. "Go on."

Sam's eyes dart over Dean's head towards Cas again before he continues. "There was a woman in Windom. Dad was hunting ghouls there when we were kids, and I guess they hooked up. Anyway, she got pregnant, had a kid, and they kept in touch. I guess he'd visited sometimes when he could. Anyway, once we killed the demon, quit the life, he headed there."

"Dad has another kid?" Dean can't wrap his head around it.

Sam nods helplessly at him. And Dean supposes he must have felt the same disbelief at first. And if he’s had more time to get used to the idea then that’s Dean’s fault not Sam’s. That doesn’t stop the anger from soaking into his words.

"So after dragging us around the country, from hunt to hunt, after turning our childhoods into one long hellish survival test, he quit hunting, just like that, and moved to fucking Minnesota to play happy fucking families."

"I know it's a lot to take in."

Dean laughs, and it sounds crazed even to his own ears. "No. No. I guess it makes sense. Why wouldn't he want to try again with another kid? I mean you didn't need him, not since you were a fucking teenager, and me... well, better just to cut his losses and start over."

Sam's face is doing the weird thing where it looks like it's eating itself. "Dean, Dad loves you, you know that, right? He was devastated when we couldn't find you."

"Are you defending him?" Dean asks incredulously. "Seriously, are you fucking high? After every fucking argument you had with the man, after all the shit he put you through, now you're defending him?"

Sam leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, his expression pinched. "A lot happened while you were gone, Dean. A lot changed."

Apparently, Dean thinks. Jesus, it's not quite the reunion that he had envisioned. The least surprising part to it was the punch in the face. And suddenly, like a wave crashing over him, a bone weary fatigue hits Dean. He feels empty, drained, like all the energy has bled out of the gaping wound of his heart.

"Would you like some tea, Dean? Or a glass of water perhaps?"

Dean had almost forgotten that Cas was standing behind him. He shakes his head, briefly considers asking for something stronger but Sam was never a big drinker, not like Dad, and he'd doubtless be unimpressed. "No, no thanks."

"Dean, Dad will want to know you're here. That you're safe."

Dean tenses as Sam slips a cellphone out of his back pocket and set it on the table between them. He's glad that Dad is alive. Glad that he's happy with his new perfect family. But he doesn't want to see him, and he tells Sam as much.

"You don't have to see him. Just let me call him, tell him you're alive."

"No, Sam." Dean eyes the cellphone warily and then the doorway. "Not yet. Please."

"But, Dean..."

"Sam, there's plenty of time." Dean's grateful but surprised when Cas intervenes. "You've both suffered quite the shock already today. I don't think either of you need the added pressure of dealing with John Winchester."

Sam picks up the cellphone, twisting it in his hands. Dean watches entranced as his fingers, longer and thicker than he remembers, caress the black plastic case. "Okay, fine. But I'll have to call him at some point."

Dean licks his lips trying to work up some moisture in his mouth, eyes still lowered, watching his brother's fingers. A thin sounding "sure" is all he manages in reply. He only looks up when Sam lets out a small huff of laughter.

"Shit, Dean, I can't believe you're here." Sam scrubs his palms across his face, and when they come away, Sam for the first time looks as exhausted as Dean feels. "Where the fuck have you been?"

 And Jesus Christ, what is Dean supposed to say. Where does he even start?

 

 **_*Sam's Interlude_** *****

 

"Are you okay?" Cas asks, as Sam pulls aside the comforter to climb into bed beside him. Sam notices with an appreciative nod that Dean's presence in their house hasn't affected Cas's preference for sleeping in the nude. Well that's one small mercy at least. Nothing helps Sam sleep better than having a naked Cas wrapped around him. And waking up with a naked Cas snuggled against his side is no hardship either. 

Sam strips off his own tee shirt but leaves his boxer shorts on. He might not be a hunter anymore but he still doesn't feel comfortable going to bed in nothing at all. Memories of chasing an angry black dog away from a motel room with his junk hanging out have left more than one scar. 

"Sam?" Cas asks again, head tilted in concern.

Sam shakes his head with a sigh that's deep and heartfelt, because to be honest, he's really not okay. Not at all. His emotions ricocheting from one extreme to another over the past twentyfour hours have left him strung tight and worn out. Although it's trite, dazed and confused would also be accurate. But after a moment's consideration he says, mainly truthfully, "I guess I am actually." Because for as crap as Dean looks, as worried as Sam is, the most important thing is they are back together under the same roof. Dean's alive. And safe. Even if he's not in any way healthy.

"You know, it's perfectly fine not to be okay right now." Cas says, leaning against Sam, his skin as usual cool against Sam's warmth. Both of them are sitting up, backs against the wooden headboard, sleep not on the cards for now. Probably not for a while. "It's been quite a day."

"You can say that again," Sam grimaces.

Cas never fails. "It's been quite a day."

Cas's sense of humor runs incredibly dry. Sam elbows him gently in the side, but he can't help but smile, which no doubt was Cas's aim in the first place.

"I'm glad Dean's back. I mean it's like a freaking miracle, him appearing out of the blue like this. But..." Sam rubs his hand across his mouth. "He looks like shit, Cas. I mean I was always bigger than him, and don't get me wrong he's stretched up a few inches, but hell, he had more meat on his bones when he was sixteen. And Christ, he was a skinny looking kid back then."

Cas hums thoughtfully. "At least he's here, Sam."

"For now." Sam points out, frustration spiking his words, even though that frustration shouldn't be aimed at Cas. "We practically had to tie him down before he took his boots off. God, he always was a stubborn brat."

"That is shocking," Cas notes, dry as a bone. "Considering how easy going and flexible you and your father both are."

Sam huffs a laugh. That's a fair point. Dean really didn't fall far from the bullheaded Winchester family tree.

"He is... " Cas pauses, and Sam can tell he's trying to pick his words carefully. "He is a very attractive young man despite his obvious malnutrition. How do you... do you think... how do you feel about that? About him, after all this time?"

Sam's stomach drops. The problem with Cas is... well, there is no problem with Cas, not really. He's wonderful; kind and honest and innately good. He doesn't believe in bullshit and won't abide lies, but he'll help anyone in need without a second thought. He has a way of seeing right down into the depth of a person’s soul. In finding the good in them. And rooting out the evil.

Sam had fallen for Cas from the minute he'd set eyes on him. And Cas, miraculously, had loved him back, right from day one. Both their lives had been far too complicated to make things work straight away; between them they had enough baggage to weigh down a lifetime of relationships. But they'd taken refuge in each other for as long as they could, as long as Sam could afford. And once that yellow-eyed bastard had finally been dealt with, Cas had been their waiting for him, welcoming him back with open arms and a warm mouth.

He’d helped Sam untangle himself from the world of hunting. Encouraged him to chase his college dreams and bullied him every time he threated to quit. In the months and years that followed he'd talked Sam down from midterm panics and hunting nightmares alike, with a calmness that soothed Sam’s jagged edges and healed years old hurts. Somehow, even though in their own ways they were both damaged spirits, together they worked.

Even then, it still took time before Sam laid himself completely bare to Cas. Before he finally ripped open his chest and plucked out the one toxic secret he'd never confessed out loud. The tar-thick guilt clinging to his heart. At the time he'd been almost drunk, not quite; his tongue was liquor-loosened but not to the point that he didn't know what he was doing. With dread clawing at his throat, he'd blurted out his darkest, sickest, secret and waited for the sword to fall. For the disgust, and anger. For Cas to leave.

But Cas had barely even been shocked. He’d calmly accepted the wicked taint of Sam's soul in the same unruffled way he accepted tales of werewolves and witches and wendigos.

He'd taken Sam into arms, calmed his tremors and gently wiped the tears from his face. "You and your brother," he'd said, his voice as soft as feathers against Sam's skin, "your childhoods were not normal. You grew up with just each other, bonded together in a secret world that isolated you from other people. You depended on each other. Understood each other in a way no one else possibly could. Loved each other. There's nothing wrong with that."

That logic was hard for Sam to accept though. Not when he loved his brother in a way that was unnatural. And illegal. And just plain wrong. Oh, he'd never acted on it. Had hidden the fact that as both of them had matured into young men, Dean still barely more than a child really, small for his age at fifteen, Sam's feelings had grown from protective to possessive. From loving to _loving_.

He'd watched Dean grow from a cute, kind of goofy kid into a terrifyingly pretty young guy. One that attracted second looks wherever he went. The dirty wrong kind of looks. At first when Sam spotted the blown pupils and heady want in others, when he felt the urge to punch out motel clerks and too friendly waitresses, he told himself it was normal. He was protective of his little brother, nothing wrong with that. It was the way John Winchester had raised him after all; look out for your brother, Sammy. But slowly Sam had to admit, just to himself, that wasn't entirely true. His anger wasn't that righteous. It wasn't that he wanted to kill anyone who dared fantasise about stealing the last of his kid brother's innocence. It was that Sam wanted to do it himself.

The realization had shaken him. Sickened him to his stomach. But it hadn't stopped him. Not from looking and daydreaming, not from imagining his huge hands spread across skinny limbs, or from watching jailbait lips wrapped around melting juice-slick ice pops, not from secretly thinking of Dean as his, and not from breaking the faces of guys who dared creep too close. Or staring down girls who flirted a little too hard. Even if Dean seemed oblivious to them all.

Sam hated himself for how he felt about Dean. He still does.

Sam considers Cas's question now; how does he feel about Dean? There is no easy answer. "I love you," Sam eventually says, honestly, hopelessly.

"And I love you too," Cas replies evenly. "It is possible to love more than one person at a time though, Sam. Your love for Dean—"

"It's wrong," Sam drops his head into hands. "It’s still wrong. I tried to convince myself that all I wanted was my little brother back. All these years, I told myself that's all I cared about. Just having him back in my life."

Cas runs his fingers through Sam's hair. "And now that he's here?"

"Now I want to kill whoever hurt him. I want to lock Dean in the house and never let him leave again. I want to shake him until he realizes that he was always the one good, decent, thing in my life, the most important thing in my life, that I never begrudged looking out for him. I want to make him realize that running off to join the damn marines like that didn't help me, it almost fucking killed me."

"It's okay to be angry, Sam. And confused," Cas says. "Just don't confuse your anger at yourself with anger at Dean."

That makes more sense than Sam is willing to admit.

"What if... " Sam turns to look at Cas. "What if he knew?" It's something that's haunted Sam ever since Dean left. "What if he found out, somehow, how I felt about him? Sensed what a sick bastard I am. What if he was frightened of me? What if that's why he really left?"

Cas curves his hand around the back of Sam's neck, squeezes gently, his cool eyes filled with warmth. "You're not sick, Sam. You couldn't help your feelings. And you never once acted on them. It's obvious how much Dean looked up to you, how much he loved you. How much he still loves you. You're a good man. A good brother."

Even now, despite the times they've discussed this, dissected it, Sam finds that hard to believe. He doesn’t have Cas's faith that his inner demons can ever allow him to be good. That deep down he doesn't deserve to be hunted down like any other monster.

Sam's thoughts are chasing circles in his head. He doesn't know which issue to deal with first from the long list of his own and possibly the longer list of his brother's. How he can begin to deal with any of them. "What do I do now, Cas?"

"Now, you love him and care for him, and together we help him heal."

Cas makes it sound so easy. And for just a minute when his soft lips press against Sam's, Sam almost believes him.

 

 

**Chapter Three**

 

Sam and Cas retreated upstairs to bed a couple of hours ago and Dean's lying on the sofa in the lounge pretending to try to sleep. He didn't want to stay overnight. He'd balked at the idea even though he knew it was inevitable that they'd ask him to stay. In the end there was no arguing, not with Sam, not when he slipped into full on big brother mode.

Despite owning a three bedroom house, Sam and Cas don't have guest room or possess a spare bed. One bedroom has been turned into an office and the other is filled with junk and cardboard boxes. They've not gotten around to unpacking all their shit since they moved in last year, Sam explained, looking embarrassed, like Dean even cared. Jesus, his brother owns a house, has a good job at the University library, a sexy as hell partner who obviously dotes on him, Dean couldn't be prouder.

He lies on the sofa for another fifteen minutes. He's exhausted physically, his limbs heavy and eyes stinging, but no matter how desperately he wants to rest, his brain is still running a million miles an hour. He can't help running the day’s events over and over in his head, thinking of how he should have done it all differently. He's such an idiot. He never makes good decisions. Never thinks things through. It was a stupid idea to even come here. But he'd told himself that it wasn't fair to Sam not to give him closure. Which really is bullshit. What Dean wanted was one more chance to see his brother. To see if he'd imagined how he felt all those years ago. If it was just teenage hormones running riot.

At least he knows now. It wasn't. He's still in love with his big brother.

He's such a fucking freak.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Dean admits to himself that he's not getting any sleep, not for a long time. He sits up and swivels round, the hardwood floor chilly underneath his bare feet. Bending down he rummages through his bag, trying to find the battered pack of smokes he knows is hidden somewhere.

He doesn't smoke, well, okay, he does know the fact that he bought a pack of twenty Marlboro about five bus journeys ago kind of disproves that, but he doesn't smoke often. It's just something to distract him when his hands won't stop fidgeting or his brain is spinning out of control. 

He finds his cigarettes eventually and the old zippo tucked alongside them, his thumb tracing over the marine emblem etched in the steel case. It belonged to Henrikson. His sister gave it to Dean after.... _after_. Dean had been in hospital, barely fucking functioning when she'd visited, pressed Vic's dog tags and zippo into his hand. Dean had been pretty out of it at the time but he can still remember how blotchy her face had been from crying. How adamant she was that Vic would have wanted Dean to have his stuff. But then she'd also repeated more than once that what happened wasn't Dean's fault, that she didn't blame him at all, so as far as Dean was concerned she was either nuts or full of horseshit.

Figuring Sam wouldn't want him lighting up in the living room, Dean heads outside to the deck. He's unlocking the sliding door when the sudden sound of Sam's voice right behind him almost gives him a heart-attack.

"You running off again, Dean?"

Dean jumps, his shoulder bashing against the glass door. He scowls back at his big brother. "Jesus, Sam, you almost gave me a freaking coronary. How the fuck can a yeti like you still be so fucking stealthy?"

Sam doesn't look amused. He does however look as tired as Dean feels.

Dean holds up his cigarettes. "I'm going outside for a smoke. You think I'm gonna run off in my boxer shorts?" Dean looks down at himself, hoping that Sam can't see his scars in the dim light. Most of them thankfully are hidden by his old tee shirt.

"You smoke?" And Jesus, Dean hasn't missed that pissy tone of disapproval. The 'you haven't done your homework, Dean' or the 'I told you to stay right there, Dean,' tone. It makes Dean feel like a fifteen year old failure all over again.

Dean shrugs, and turns back around to open the door, shivering as the cool air slaps him in the face when he finally manages to slide it open. Sam follows him outside. At least he's wearing a pair of joggers and a warm looking hoodie. He always did have more sense than Dean. "You know dad would kick your ass for smoking."

Dean snorts. "You gonna run and tell him?"

And that's maybe too close the bone. Sam sighs, and shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets. "I wish you'd let me call him."

They've had this argument three times now. Although it's not much of an argument. Dean simply shakes his head and refuses to discuss it. He does the same now, then knocks a smoke free, pops it between his lips and lights it. Sam watches him like a hawk as he takes his first draw. His eyes trained on Dean's lips then his trembling hand. At least he's not staring at the few scars visible on his arms, the faint welts on his thighs. 

They stand in silence for a few minutes, Dean taking the occasional puff from his cigarette and watching the smoke drift off into the night. It's awkward in a way that makes Dean sad. There was a time that being with his brother was the easiest thing in the world. 

"I'm sorry."

Dean's head snap towards Sam in surprise. "For what?"

"For... for whatever I did that made you run off."

Dean's stomach flips. He doesn't want to talk about this again. He knows there's no way to explain why he ran off when he did without Sam finding out how much of a sicko he really is. And he's quite happy for that to never happen.

"It wasn't you, Sam. You didn't do anything."

Sam shakes his head. "You were my responsibility, Dean. And you... Jesus, you were just a kid."

"I was seventeen," Dean reminds him. "And I hadn't been a kid for a long time. Neither had you."

"The thought of you out there on your own," Sam shudders. "It almost killed me. It still gives me nightmares."

Dean stares at his cigarette, the orange ash flickering bright. He knows running off was a crappy thing to do. The guilt from that decision is still, will always be, wrapped like a band around Dean's heart. Sometimes it squeezes so tight that it stops him from breathing. The thing is, he knew even as he was doing it that Sam and his Dad would be worried sick. It just, it felt like the right thing to do. The only thing to do. He just doesn't know how to explain that to Sam.

"I'm sorry." Dean can't look at Sam as he says it, just at the way the cigarette is vibrating between his fingers. "I know you probably won't believe me, but I am. It was a shitty thing to do to you."

"Dean?" There's so much weight in Sam's voice that Dean knows whatever he's about to ask, is not something Dean will be prepared to answer.

"Where did you go?"

Dean exhales, and shakes his head. Takes another draw from his cigarette, knocks the ash over the edge of the decking onto the grass. He's already explained his absence for the past six years. Not entirely. Some things he omitted completely, others he's fudged. But his years in the marines, his training, his tours of duty, he hoped they'd explained enough.

"I told you, Sam. I went to the recruiting station and I signed up."

"You weren't old enough, Dean. You were just a kid."

"Jesus," Dean shakes his head. "Is that what you're hung up on? You think I didn't have fake ID? Hell, I'd been driving since I was thirteen. Remember? After the hunt that got you knocked out cold and Dad's knee fucked up but good."

"There's a difference between a fake driver’s ID and the documents you need to join the fucking army."

"Yeah? Well it's not like I didn't know where to go get them." Dean takes one final draw from his smoke and pinches the butt out between his fingers. He goes to throw it out onto the grass, but thinks better of it under Sam's unblinking gaze, and cradles it awkwardly in his hand instead, ignoring the heat burning his palm.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest. "So, what? You talked one of Dad's buddies into helping you out? Seriously?"

Dean shrugs. John Winchester might have been one scary son of a bitch that most people would rather shoot than cross, but that didn't mean that Dean couldn't figure a way to get what he wanted. Not after he met Dad's old marine buddy, Harry. They'd stayed with him for near on a month the year that Dean turned fifteen. Out in his cabin in the ass end of nowhere Kansas. Dad was recovering from a nasty gut wound and Sam was stomping around the place, pissed about something or other. He and dad had been arguing for weeks. Ever since they'd found out that Dean had flunked out of half his classes that year. Sam wanted to settle down somewhere, enroll Dean in a decent school for more than a few months. Dad wouldn't even consider the idea. Sammy had managed to earn his diploma with added fucking bells and whistles, Dad argued, there was no reason Dean couldn't do the same.

And what Dean wanted never mattered; you’re too young to understand, Dean. Too small. Too inexperienced. Too fucking dumb.

Harry didn't think he was too young. Harry thought he was just young enough. And definitely pretty enough. He gave Dean all the attention he craved that summer. Helped him perfect his sniping skills. Taught him how to gut a fish. How to field dress a deer. How to kiss. Looking back on it, Dean knows Harry preyed on him. But at the time Dean wanted it. Wanted to know what a guy’s hands on him felt like. A guy that was older, and bigger and more experienced. It wasn't Harry that he wanted, but the guy was good looking in a rugged way, kind in a creepy way, and a decent enough substitute.

It never went all that far. Harry was a risk taker, and a bit of a pervert, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew that with John and Sam close by, anything more than a kiss was risking a bullet in his balls. But those stolen moments had been all Dean needed for a little friendly blackmail. And Harry knew all the right people. Fake ID, birth certificate, High School Diploma; they'd been no problem for him to get his hands on. Just on the understanding that John Winchester never found out who taught his fifteen year old son to kiss like a pro. 

And if Dean had to hitchhike across the country to make sure his dad couldn't track him down, so what. He was young and good looking and he didn't mind sucking dick. Jesus, sometimes he really fucking enjoyed it. One time he didn't even have to do more than jerk the guy off while he lectured Dean on how God would save them all from the sins of the flesh. That left an even worse taste in his mouth than usual. Give him stale sweat and spunk rather than hypocrisy any day of the week.

"And the Marines bought it?" Sam's skeptical retort nudges Dean out of those less than stellar memories.

"I had the paperwork. I passed all the tests. And I aced basic training. I was the perfect fucking soldier."

"You were still a kid."

"Well, I guess they didn't care." Dean's shivering for real now. His boxer shorts and thin tee doing nothing to protect him from the cold night air. "Look, Sam, the Marines were good to me. I... I liked it, okay?"

Sam strips off his faded red USD hoodie, his tee riding up his body revealing tanned washboard abs that leave Dean dry mouthed. He blinks, taken unawares when the hoody hits him in the face. "Put it on," Sam says. "You're frozen."

"I'm fine," Dean argues. But he does what he's told anyway, finally flips the dead end of his cigarette into the shadows of the yard, and slips the hoodie over his head. He brushes his fingertips over the coyote grinning from his chest.The cotton is thick and soft and smells so much of Sam that Dean's scared he'll never want to take it off.

"So you got a medical discharge?" Sam asks. Dean's already told him this much, so he simply nods, tucks his hands up inside the too long sleeves of Sam's top.

"And you served in Iraq?"

Dean nods. "Both tours."

It's Sam turn to shiver. "Maybe we should go back inside," Dean says. Sam's probably frozen now too. God knows Dean's feet feel like ice blocks.

"You... did something happen across there?" Sam asks as he follows Dean back into the house, pulling the sliding door closed behind him. Dean walks back to the sofa, doesn't offer Sam back his hoody, just curls his knees up so the material stretches over them, buries his toes beneath the blanket he's supposed to be sleeping under.

Fuck, plenty happened to Dean across there. But that's not really what Sam's asking. He wants to know why the medical discharge. And no, that was nothing to do with Iraq. It's also not something he's going to talk about.

"I'm tired, Sam," he says. "Can we talk about it later?" Sam's bitchface suggests he knows Dean's later is code for never, but he lets it drop, maybe presuming he has plenty of time to figure out the full story.

"You gonna be warm enough?" Sam asks instead, looking at the way Dean's huddled up in a ball. And suddenly Dean feels like a stupid little kid again.

"Sure," he mumbles, uncurling his legs and lying down flat on the sofa. He tugs the blanket up and over him, hoping it's too dark for Sam to see the red tips of his ears. "Night, Sammy."

"Night, Dean."

There's a moment's hesitation before Dean hears Sam leaving the room and the creak of the stairs as he heads back up to bed. To Cas.

 

Dean wakes with a start, heart pounding, and hand flying to his chest, to the burn mark seared into his skin. The worst one. The first. It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is. When he is. Another minute to relax enough to move, unwrap the blanket from his ankles and stand up. He's more surprised that he managed to fall asleep in the first place than he is by being woken by a nightmare. Sam's sofa's is more comfortable than it looks. His hoodie warmer. Dean's legs shake when he walks, thighs aching like he climbed miles uphill the day before.

He needs a piss, and to clean the sour taste from his gums. But before his barely awake body can make it to the bathroom he's distracted by voices from the kitchen; Sam's house is really too open plan to hold a private conversation. He knows he should mind his own business, even when he hears his own name mentioned, but curiosity always was one of Dean's sins. Not his biggest one, not by a mile. But eavesdropping is an ingrained habit that’s hard to kick. When you're the youngest in the family, listening at doors is the easiest way to find out what everyone else knows.

"No, Sam I don't think Dean will care about the lack of chocolate chips in his pancakes."

"But they're his favorite, Cas. Maybe I could run to the store..."

"Sam, really, you've already made bacon, and sausage, and enough toast to feed the entire neighborhood. I don't think a lack of chocolate chips is a problem. I think Dean exploding is far more likely."

Sam's voice is strained when he replies. "Cas... "

"I'm sorry, Sam, I don't mean to make light of this, but you have to admit you're going overboard."

"I know. I know, Cas. But, shit, you've seen him. His cheek bones look like they're trying to slice through his face. It hurts me every time he moves. I need to... I just... I mean... fuck! He looks like... he looks like he's been starved. Do you think... what do you think... "

Dean leans back against the wall, the upset in the crack of Sam's voice punching him in the gut.

"Shh, Sam," Dean hears Cas soothe. "It's okay. Everything will be okay. He's here. You got him back. Whatever has happened, whatever Dean has been through, we will help him. I promise."

Guilt hits Dean again. He shouldn't have come here, invaded Sam's comfortable new life. He'll leave today. As soon as he can. Sure, Sam will be pissed, but he'll get over it. Again. He's got Cas. He'll be fine.

Dean sneaks away before Sam and Cas spot him lurking, returns fifteen minutes later washed up and dressed. His bag is in the living room neatly packed up and ready to go. As soon as Sam and Cas leave for work, Dean'll hit the road.

Cas wasn't wrong, there's enough food on the kitchen table to feed Dean's whole squad, shit, probably his platoon.

"Holy shit, Sammy, you hungry this morning?" Dean stares at the plates of food piled on the table. Sam tosses another pancake onto the stack that's already towering high, and switches off the stove.

"You want coffee?" He asks, ignoring Dean's incredulous look, and the smirk that Cas is trying to hide behind a newspaper.

"Please," Dean says, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down. Sam fills a mug for him, a ThunderCats mug. Dean laughs when he takes it, and Sam blushes. "It was a gift," he says, glancing at Cas who smiles back at him with a soppy look on his face that should make Dean want to hurl. It should. Jesus though, Dean couldn't begin to count how many Saturday mornings he and Sam spent lying around watching cartoons on crappy motel TV's, chipped cereal bowls of Lucky Charms perched on their laps. It's a good memory to have. A normal memory. One that Sam’s obviously shared with Cas.

Dean tries to eat breakfast. Some of it at least. Takes two pancakes and covers them in syrup, eats one and then makes conversation to distract Sam from the fact he's basically just playing with the other. His appetite, the doctors and shrinks have assured him, will return. He just has to persevere. Eat little and often. Even if he isn't hungry. But then the doc’s also said the nightmares would ease up, and the antidepressants would help. Didn't stop the asshats from kicking his crazy ass out of the Marines though.

"So, I guess you'll need to head off to work soon," Dean says, trailing the spines of his fork through a syrup puddle on his plate.

"No," Sam says, nudging a plate of crisped bacon towards Dean. "My long lost brother just turned up on my doorstep, I figured I'd take a personal day."

Dean looks at him sharply, panic bubbling in his guts. "You don't have to do that."

"Sure I do." Sam says, knocking a piece of bacon onto Dean's plate. "I want to catch up. And I figured I'd clear the boxes out of the spare room, maybe see if we can find an air mattress. Just until we can buy a proper bed."

Dean shoves his plate away, bacon and the torn up remains of his pancake and all. "Sam... "

"Dean," Cas cuts in, setting down his newspaper, before standing up and clearing his and Dean's plates from the table. "Tell me, do you have the same unhealthy relationship with that old boat of a Cadillac currently parked in our garage that your brother does?"

"Cadillac?" Dean asks looking at Cas in confusion. Sam lets out a disgusted huff. "Christ, Cas, for the millionth time it's a Chevy Impala."

"Impala?" Dean snaps upright in his seat. "You have the car? Dad gave you Baby?"

Ten minutes later, Dean is sitting in the driver’s side of the Impala, fingers caressing the steering wheel, Sam sat beside him, arm draped across the back of the seat. It's the most content Dean's felt in years. The most at home he's felt. Although the driver’s seat isn't his usual vantage point. The only times he got to drive were when a hunt had turned uglier than normal. And when Sam taught him to drive.

They haven't gone anywhere. Are still parked in the garage, looking down the driveway toward the quiet little street. Dean can't imagine how bored the Impala must be stuck here every day. Not when she's used to life on the road, miles passing under her wheels.

"So, you and Cas?" Dean asks, running his fingertips along the dashboard. "How did that happen? He's not a hunter is he?" Dean doubts it. The guy's too pretty, too well mannered; he doesn't have the scars or the temperament of a hunter.

Sam smiles beside him, and Dean tries to ignore down the ugly flare of jealousy in his chest. "No, not a hunter. Not quite. Remember when I said a young priest helped Pastor Jim trap the demon?"

Dean jerks a nod.

"Well, that was Cas."

"What?" Dean's head snaps towards Sam. "Cas is a priest?"

"Was a priest." Sam says. "He _was_ a priest."

"Holy shit, Sam." Dean gawks. "You corrupted a priest. Holy shit!"

Sam screws his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. "It wasn't quite like that."

Dean grins, annoying little brother wide, and elbows Sam in the ribs. "You dog, Sammy; seducing a priest. I didn't think you had it in you."

Sam slaps his hand over his face, shakes his head. But Dean sees the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Jesus though, when Dean thinks about it, the idea of Cas in a priest's get-up; that's pretty hot. "That's not what happened, Dean."

"So, he seduced you?" Dean smirks and wiggles his eyebrows. "He didn't mistake you for an altar boy did he?"

"Oh my god, Dean, what's wrong with you?" Sam groans, and punches Dean, dead-arm swift in the bicep, his big brother muscle memory kicking in.

It hurts like a bitch, and he's going to have a yeti-sized bruise purpling his arm, but Dean grins. It's a good hurt. A familiar one that tells tales of borrowed clothes, too long showers, and stolen candy.

When Dean looks at Sam though there's worry in his eyes and an apology quivering in the corner of his lips. One that would ruin the brief flash of normality Dean is relishing. Dean tries to distract him quickly. "Man, I can't believe Dad gave you the car. What'd he do get himself a minivan?"

Sam winces, and Dean kicks himself. Stupid thing to say.

"Dean," It's Sam's earnest tone of voice. "You know, Dad..."

Dean cuts him off. "It's fine, Sam. I was joking. Don't make a big deal of it. Hey, can we take her out?"

Sam's not keen, especially not on Dean driving, but Dean persuades him. He's not a kid. He doesn't need to sit on a cushion to see out of the windscreen anymore. And whatever Sam might think, he's fit enough, sane enough, to get behind the wheel of car without killing them both.

The Impala's one thing that's not changed in the past six years. Her engine still roars to life and rumbles like a content tiger, draining the tension from Dean's muscles. The plastic army man that Dean jammed in the ashtray is still there. And the Lego that Sam shoved into the vents still rattles when Dean flips on the heat. The car feels more like a home than anywhere else Dean has ever laid down his head.

They drive for a couple of hours, Sam and Dean, heading nowhere in particular. Dean just hits the open road and drives where it takes him, then turns around and drives back again. It's a bittersweet journey, feels like a goodbye. And Dean knows it is even if Sam doesn't yet. He's glad he got to sit behind the wheel of Baby one more time. Got to see Sam sitting beside him on that bench seat laughing about something stupid, his long legs bent up in a way that can't be comfortable.

Dean pats the Impala's door fondly once he parks her back up in Sam's garage, thanks her for always being there for him. For Sam. Silently begs her to look after Sam, keep him safe.

Most of the rest of the day is spent sitting on the sofa, for Dean at least. Sam busies himself unpacking boxes and clearing out his spare room, despite Dean's protests that he really doesn't need to.

"You need to sleep somewhere," Sam snaps at him when Dean tries one last time. The speculative look that Cas casts Dean when Sam stomps back up the stairs with another trash bag makes Dean squirm. Cas has the most intense eyes, bluer than any Dean has seen before. It's almost as hard to look away from them as it is to meet them.

"Dean," Cas says in his deep rolling tones. "I realize that Sam hasn't actually asked you what plans you have, now that you're a civilian again, but I want you to know that our home is your home for as long as you want it to be."

Dean picks up a throw pillow from the sofa and hugs to his chest, looks across to where his bag is sitting tucked in the corner of the room out of the way. Packed and ready to go. "I didn't come here to leech off you."

Cas squints at Dean, confused. "You are not 'leeching', Dean." Cas uses air quotes when he repeats the word which, strangely, is almost as adorable as it is dorky. "You are family. Sam loves you very much. Has missed you very much. He wants you here. Even if he's not very good at putting that into words."

Dean mumbles noncommittally.

"Do you have someplace else to be?"

"I... I.... " Dean stutters, wrong-footed by Cas's direct question. "I... have plans."

Plans?" Cas tilts his head, his eyes unblinking.

"Yeah," Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Plans. I'm not... I don't need... Look, I really just wanted to make sure that Sam was good. To show him that I'm okay. And I've done that. And you and Sam, you obviously have this amazing life going on. And that’s great, really, that's awesome. But you don't need me around screwing it all up."

"You aren't screwing anything up by being here, Dean. Leaving on the other hand, would, I suspect, be detrimental to Sam and yourself. And me."

"You?"

"Yes, of course. You're such a big part of Sam's life, Dean. He talks about you all the time. I'd like the chance to get to know you too. For you to get to know me. I suspect we have very much in common."

Cas looks so sincere that Dean doesn't know whether laugh or cry. Cas is a good looking, obviously intelligent, and put together dude. Dean's a twisted, messed up, loser. The only thing Cas and Dean have in common is Sam. And if Dean sticks around for long they're all gonna figure that out. Nope. Dean had a plan. And he's gonna stick to it.

Dean's relieved when he's saved from answering by a shout from Sam, calling Cas upstairs to sort out a box of his stuff before Sam throws it all in the trash.

Sam and Cas try to feed Dean on an hourly basis during the day. Sam also floats the idea of calling their father again. Dean isn't any keener this time around, and nixes it without a second thought. He does write down his Dad's cell phone number, tucks it away in his bag, telling Sam he'll call their father when the time feels right. Without Sam hovering over his shoulder. Cas gives him that narrowed eyed look which suggests he can see right through Dean's bullshit.

They don't end up going out to buy an air mattress. None of them can be bothered moving by the time Sam and Cas finish clearing out their spare room, and Dean truthfully assures them that the sofa is comfy enough for him to sleep on for another night. Instead they order pizza and eat it in front of the TV. Sam surreptitiously watching every mouthful Dean does and doesn't eat. When it starts to grate too much on his nerves, Dean grabs his cigarettes and heads outside for a smoke. He stays out there until the cold has seeped through his shirt and pebbled his skin. And he's sure that Sam and Cas will have finished eating.

When he pads back inside, regretting not putting boots on his socked feet before he went out, Dean finds Cas and Sam in the kitchen. Cas's shirt sleeves are neatly folded half way up his forearms as he washes their plates and glasses in the sink and Sam's pressed up against his back, arms wrapped around his waist, nuzzling kisses against the side of Cas's neck. It's so casually intimate that Dean immediately feels like he's intruding. But he can't look away. It's a sweet torture, watching them entwined. Envy twists in Dean's belly. And yearning.

He watches, breath held in his throat, as Cas turns into Sam's embrace, tips his head up and offers his mouth for a kiss. They make a beautiful couple.

But then, Sam always has been gorgeous. Unlike most teenage boys he grew up with barely a blemish, maturing from cute to handsome in a way that made girls giggle and boys jealous. All the training dad made them do ensured that Sam's lanky frame filled out quickly, and the confidence and attitude he carried with him made him seem so much older than the other kids his age. If they'd stuck around one place long enough, he'd have been high school prom king material for sure.

Nowadays, Sam is stop and stare stunning, with his wide shoulders, long legs and muscles that shine sun-kissed honey gold.

And Cas, maybe he's not as built as Sam, doesn't glow tanned and healthy, but there's beauty in his cream skin, and strength in his lithe body and steady gaze. He has a five o'clock shadow when Sammy is still shaved smooth. And a dark mop of hair that isn't as long as Sam's, but long enough for Sam to tangle his fingers in, position Cas's head just where he wants it. The perfect angle for Sam to lick across his generous lips, soft and plump and perfect.

Even the self-loathing that slithers sour through his guts doesn't stop Dean's dick from hardening in his jeans. Sam kisses like he does everything else, with intensity and focus. And Cas, he revels in it, chases after Sam's mouth with an enthusiasm that leaves Dean breathless.

He shouldn't be watching. If he wasn't a sick fuck, he'd turn and walk away. Most guys finding their brother making out with his boyfriend would run in the opposite direction making gagging noises, not stand staring, weak-kneed and more than half-hard.

Dean doesn't move until Cas's eyes suddenly flip open, zeroing in on Dean standing there. He doesn't stop kissing Sam though, just keeps steady eye contact with Dean until Dean finally manages to look away and stumble, shame-faced, from the room.

Sam's flushed and grinning when he and Cas join Dean in the living room fifteen minutes later. Dean can barely look the pair of them in the face. But he can feel Cas casting him speculative glances from his chair, especially when Dean can't help but lean into his brother’s warmth when Sam sits down right next to him on the sofa. Dean's definitely leaving tonight. As soon as Cas and Sam are asleep, he's hitting the road.

Except Dean falls asleep first, right there on the sofa, dozes off in front of the television, with Sam pressed up against his side, and Cas smiling softly at them from the armchair across the room.

He thinks he wakes briefly for a second, a light brush of fingers through his hair and a blanket tucked around him, but sleep drags him back under before he decides whether or not he's actually awake.

It's Victor's screams that wake him the next time. Except halfway through the swing of the big, ugly machete, Victor's face twists into Sam's and Dean can't do anything but watch as the blade slices right through his jugular, his blood, warm and cloying, spraying across Dean's face, clinging to his lips, seeping into his mouth, across his tongue, down his throat.

Dean is yanked to consciousness violently, gasping and coughing and on the cusp of puking his guts up.

"Shhh, you're fine. It's not real. It's just a dream, Dean."

It might just have been a dream, but the nausea is very real. Luckily, Cas realizes that and a trash can swiftly appears in front of Dean. There's not much in his stomach, thank god, so at least he's not got much to puke up. But the taste of bile is rank in his mouth by the time his stomach has finally settled, and he can't look near Cas, humiliation crawling like a rash over his skin.

Cas replaces the trashcan with a glass of cold water. Dean takes a long sip and then hands it back. The water helps dilute the godawful taste in his mouth but does nothing to wash away the embarrassment. Dean could use a cigarette around now, but instead he tucks his legs up to his chest, curls his arms around his shins and drops his head to his knees, wishing for Cas to just disappear. For him to forget all about this. Pretend it never happened. He almost cries when the sofa dips and Cas settles down beside him, his shoulder just barely brushing Dean's, and begins to talk.

"You know, when Sam and I first got together, it wasn't easy. For either of us. We both carried a lot of pain. A lot of anger. A lot of guilt. It took a long time for either of us to accept that we deserved a chance at life. That we deserved to be happy." Cas pauses, maybe waiting for a reaction from Dean, but Dean can't bring himself to uncurl. "My childhood was not the easiest, my family was large and chaotic, my father a distant figure. After I left home, I thought the church could offer a refuge of sorts for me, and for a while it did. It became a place I thought of as home. But I'd started having doubts even before I met your brother, doubts about some of their doctrines, their unforgiving views on some subjects and their stubborn blindness towards others, and when I met Sam, any love I had left for the institution of the church paled into insignificance by the all-consuming love I felt for him."

Dean can completely understand that. Cas continues, the passion in his voice growing as he talks about Sam.

“I knew without a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this amazing man. That no hurdle would be too great to overcome with him by my side. Every day I still give thanks that Sam felt the same way. That after he and your father vanquished the demon Azazel once and for all, he came back to me. That when leaving the priesthood almost broke me, Sam was there to hold me together. Dean, your brother saved me. Without him I would have drifted through life not knowing what love and family really meant. Not understanding the roots and wings that kind of boundless love gives you.”

Dean has lifted his head from his knees and is listening intently, mesmerized by the cadence of Cas’s voice, by his honesty and the small insight he’s giving Dean into his and Sam’s lives.

Cas continues, his eyes trained steadily on Dean. "But Sam, well, it wasn’t easy for him either; he faced many battles of his own. His anger towards your father. His lack of direction after finally killing Azazel. His grief at losing you. His guilt."

"It wasn't his fault though," Dean's voice is ragged. "Sammy didn't do anything wrong."

"That's not what he believed," Cas's voice is even, not colored by a hint of blame.

"I'm sorry," Dean doesn't know why Cas is telling him this now. If he wants Dean to feel bad for what he's done. Like he could feel any worse.

"No, you misunderstand me, I don't blame you. And I certainly don't think you need to apologize. I'm just trying to explain that we, all of us, have regrets and horrors in our past. Nightmares of our own. And that sometimes the only way to get past them, to move on, is by sharing the load. Sam and I could have been swallowed whole by our demons if we hadn't had each other to lean on in our darkest times."

Dean shakes his head slowly. "I'm not like you and Sammy. You and Sam, you deserve this. Each other. Happiness."

"And you don't? You don't think you deserve happiness?"

Dean says nothing. The answer too obvious for him to want to spell out.

Cas sighs. “Sam has nightmares too sometimes. Not as often as he used to thankfully, but from time to time they reappear. He dreams of the things he’s killed, the people he couldn’t save. He dreams most often I think of his mom, your mom, in the fire. Of seeing her die."

Dean's chest clenches, and nausea rolls in his belly again. He hates the thought of Sam witnessing that. As embarrassingly jealous as he's always been that Sam knew their mom, got to spend precious time with her being a normal kid, he can't stand the thought of what Sam went through that night. Doesn't know how he'd ever have coped if the situation had been reversed. Knows he would never have been strong or brave enough to rescue Sammy the way he rescued Dean.

"And sometimes," Cas continues. "He dreams that he doesn't save you in time. That the fire reaches you first, snatches you away from him. Those are the very worst nightmares. The ones that he wakes up screaming from. Inconsolable. He loves you, Dean. With everything he has. Everything he is. In a way that he will never love me."

Dean makes a noise of dissent which Cas dismisses.

"It's true. And I don't mind. Yours lives are woven together like vines. They should never have been ripped apart."

"I had to leave." Dean says softly. "I swear it was for the best. And I'm sorry if I hurt Sammy, so fucking sorry, but I don't regret it, not for a minute. There's a helluva lot things I do regret, but not that. Not ever. Because after I left, Dad and Sam finally killed that bastard, and Sam met you and went to college, and became everything he was supposed to. I was dragging him down. Our whole lives I was dragging him down."

"That's not true, Dean." Cas's words are gentle, but his tone firm. "And if you stay, if you allow us to help you heal, to help slay whatever demons are plaguing you, I think you'll begin to see how very wrong you are."

Dean shakes his head, let's his forehead thunk back down onto his knees. His breath feels heavy in his lungs, wet and stifling.

"What happened to you, Dean?"

It's Sam's voice this time, coming from across the room. Dean swallows, screws his eyes shut even though his face is already buried. He's so tired. He shouldn't be here. Should never have stayed that first night.

Cas's hand settles low down on Dean's back, but he doesn't say anything. Just waits. Along with Sam. The silence stretching out like a pit of snakes between them.

So, Dean figures, they want to know so badly what happened... he'll tell them. Maybe then they'll see him for the worthless piece of shit he really is, and quit trying to save him.

"We were just back from Iraq." Dean doesn't know if Sam and Cas can hear him, but he's not planning on lifting his head. He can't do this if it means watching the disgust color their eyes. "Vic and I. He was... he was my friend. He looked out for me when I was still wet behind the ears, saved my ass more than once on my first tour. And kept me sane on my second." Dean thinks maybe he sounds kind of detached, like he's telling someone else's story, but the truth is he's on the cusp of breaking down. Breaking apart.

"We had a month's leave and he knew I didn't have anywhere to be." Dean thinks he hears Sam inhale sharply at that, but Cas's hand keeps up its constant pressure on the small of his back. "So he invited me out to his parents. And he knew, he'd seen firsthand, how much I hated flying, so he said we'd hire a car and make a road trip out of it. He was... he was good like that. Always thinking about other people. Even if they were a pain in the fucking ass. We'd been driving for a couple of days, and decided to take a break, find a motel, have a few beers. And then... and then.... "

Dean swallows hard around the lump in his throat, scrubs his hands over his face, and looks up, eyes focused on the painting that's hanging on the wall opposite, a watercolor scene, two people standing together, arm in arm, under an oversized red umbrella, raindrops falling around them and paint streaming down from the picture like tears. He wonders if the painting came with the house. Or if it's Cas's. Sam was never particularly into art. Although that might have changed, it's not like Dean really knows him anymore.

"Dean?" Sam prompts.

Dean wraps his arms around his chest, fingers digging into skin. "And then, we were grabbed. Or I was. We were leaving. Vic went to take a leak first, so I went outside... and... I don't even know how it happened, I mean I could look after myself, I was a goddamn marine. Fuck, you and dad taught me how to look out for myself when I was still a snot-nosed kid, but one minute I was standing in the parking lot and the next minute I was lying in a cage in a dank basement, with a head that felt like a smashed egg. There was someone else there, in another cage. A guy, Alvin he said his name was. Said he'd reckoned he'd been there a couple weeks already. Said there'd been another guy And I thought, I dunno, I thought what kind of monster takes people like this? Like maybe a...a wendigo or a ghoul."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam murmurs from across the room. "What was it?"

Dean laughs, dry and pained, and for the first time meets his brother’s eyes. "Humans, Sammy. They were just humans. Sick sons of bitches, backwoods crazies. Turns out they'd been doing it for years; kidnapping people. Killing 'em. They liked to hunt, you see. Men. Liked to grab them, lock them up for a while, make sure they were starved and desperate and fucking terrified then set them loose and hunt them down. Sort of like a family hobby. Y'know, the family that slays together stays together."

Sam winces. Dean doesn't blame him.

The rest of the story trickles out of Dean slowly, painfully, like teasing infected stitches out one by one. How Alvin ran when his cage door opened despite Dean begging him not to. How like some kind of car-crash miracle Victor came looking for him and ended up in poor Alvin's cage. The long days that dragged into weeks. The dirty water and the rancid food that made them sicker to eat than to leave. The taunts and threats. The constant odor of filth and death. Their attempts to escape. Vic dying. Right in front of him. Slaughtered like an animal. His screams. His blood.

"If he hadn't coming looking for me. If he'd just gone home like he was supposed to. Even at the end he was trying to protect me. Trying to..." Dean trails off, pushes his fingers into his eyelids trying to stop the tears from forming.

"It's not your fault." Sam kneels down at Dean's feet, gently tugs Dean's hands away from his face. "You hear me? None of this was your fault."

Of course it was, Dean wants to say. Doesn't understand how Sam can say that. How his eyes can be so sincere. His lips so honest. He figures he should tell the story to the bitter end though, get it all out there.

"I thought... when they killed Vic... I thought they'd kill me too. I wanted them to." Cas's hand twitches into a fist on his back before smoothing into a palm again, his thumb brushing soothing strokes down Dean's spine. "I just wanted it all to be over. Goddamn prayed for it. But there was a girl, the daughter. Missy. I don't even know how old she was, thirteen maybe fourteen? She was fucking feral. Batshit crazy. And vicious. And she... she took a liking to me I guess. Thought I was... pretty." Dean spits out the word. "She liked playing with me. They'd take me up to the kitchen, tie me to a chair, keep me there while she c... cut me, and burnt me. She always threatened to poke that pig-sticker knife of hers in my eye. Would hold it there, right in front of my face, and laugh while her brothers watched."

Dean shudders when he remembers sitting there in that hellhole of a kitchen; Pa sharpening his knives, or worse; butchering some poor creature, the bones dangling from the ceiling and dozens upon dozens of photographs of dead guys pinned in haphazard rows along the damp-stained wall. Vic's dead-eyes staring straight through him. And the smell, Jesus, that was the worst, the stench of death, of boiled flesh and stale blood and bleach. His stomach clenches at the memory.

"Jesus, Dean, _Jesus_." Sam's hands tighten around his, not letting Dean pull away. "That's fucked up. Wait... Missy? Missy Bender?

Dean tenses at the sudden recognition in Sam's eyes. He jerks a nod and Sam's face pales.

"Fuck. I remember reading about that. Fuck."

Sam always did have a freaky interest in serial killers. Dean never understood it. Not when their everyday lives revolved around hunting killers of the supernatural variety. Dean always figured stamp collecting or knitting would be a more relaxing hobby.

Dean slides his hands out of Sam's, tucks them under his arms. "So, you know?"

"That they were a fucked up serial killer family? That they'd been doing it for generations. That the cops don't even really know how many people they killed over the years?"

"Do you know... how they caught them?"

Sam answers carefully, obviously trying to recall the details. "One of the victim’s families, they'd kicked up a fuss when he'd disappeared. They tracked his rental car down with its GPS. I think a local sheriff, he... "

"She," Dean cuts in. "Deputy Hudak. Kathleen."

"She," Sam repeats, eyes not straying from Dean's. "She organized a search. Found the cabin."

"She came bustin’ through the door," Dean takes over, the words coming in staccato bursts as he closes his eyes again and pictures it, still clear in his head. "Another two deputies on her heels. They rushed her. Pa and Jared. And she shot them. Bang bang. She... she saw me tied to a chair in the kitchen. She sent the other deputies to check the house out while she freed me. I tried to warn her. About Missy. And Lee. But she didn't understand. Missy, she ran at us when Kathleen tried to help me out the door. Kathleen, she went down hard, banged her head on the door jam. Missy went for her with her knife, and I... I tried to wrestle it away from her... and I... I didn't mean to... I don't think... but she was wild and the knife it ended up... I stabbed her... "

"Dean, it's okay." Sam's hand cups his face. Cas's hand moves from his back, curls around his shoulder, draws Dean against his side. Dean is surprised to find he doesn't mind the contact.

"I killed her, Sam." Dean's eyes flutter open. "I killed that girl."

The hate and disgust that Dean expects to see on Sam's face doesn't appear. "You had to, Dean," Sam says, hard and as unbending as cold steel. "She would have killed that woman. You know she would have."

"No," Dean's shakes his head frantically. "No, I should have—

"Dean, listen to me," Cas interjects from beside him. "You did nothing wrong. You saved that woman's life. And you saved your own. You had no choice."

"Is that what your God would say?" Dean turns on him. "Would he be good with the fact that I was responsible for the death of my... my best friend? That I killed a child?"

Cas's eyes are impossibly blue from this close up. And utterly guileless. "My God would say you are not responsible for the death of your friend. And he would forgive you for the death of that child, far easier than you forgive yourself. If the situations had been reversed, Dean, if Victor had been in your place, or Sam, would you have blamed them for the death of Missy Bender? Or would you have been grateful that they had the strength of will to survive long enough to save another's life? To save their own?"

Dean stares into Cas's eyes looking for some hint of the hate he knows should lie there. When he doesn't find any he turns to Sam, but all he finds is his brother's steady hazel gaze. He thinks about what Cas said. Tries to find the escape clause.

"But I... "

Cas doesn't let him sidestep the question. "Would you blame Sam if he accidentally killed, in self-defense, and the defense of others, the person that had been torturing him?"

"She was a child."

"She was a monster, Dean," Sam says. "Maybe not the kind that we're used to. But that whole family, what they'd done... they were as monstrous as any werewolf or ghoul. Even more, because they had no excuse. They still had their humanity. They chose to do evil. Be evil."

"Sam," Dean's voice cracks.

Cas's hand tightens on his shoulder, and Sam leans in dragging Dean into his arms until all three of them are huddled close, breathing each other's broken air. "I'm glad, Dean, okay. I'm glad you did it. And you know what, if you hadn't killed that evil bitch I would have hunted her down and killed her myself. So if you hate yourself, you're gonna have to hate me too."

And that, that's something Dean could never do.

 

 

**Chapter Four**

 

After his monumentally pathetic breakdown, Dean’s twitchy as hell, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the revelation to finally hit Sam and Cas that Dean's a hell bound piece of trash. Freshly buried memories, blood red and torn flesh ragged, have crawled up to the surface of his mind and that doesn’t help any. He's also for some unfathomable reason completely drained; nodding off more than once on the sofa. A confession of sins might be good for the soul, but not so much for the body.

So, any plans Dean had to hit the road are put on the back burner for at least another day. Between storm waves of anxiety, impromptu naps, and Sam and Cas's not very discreet hovering, he knows running is a useless endeavor. One good thing at least, he figures Sam and Cas must think he's less of a flight risk now that he's spilled his guts, so when he finally gets the stones to leave it should be a lot easier.

But the next day is much of the same. He sleeps on the sofa again because he didn't feel up to a trip to the store and neither Sam nor Cas wanted to leave Dean alone while they did. The pair of them are watching over him like overprotective parents. Trying to feed him constantly, although less insistently now they have more of an idea why his stomach sometimes still rebels at the idea of food.

All the coddling makes Dean's insides squirm. He doesn't deserve it, and he doesn't want it. Dean consoles himself with the fact that it's Sunday and Sam and Cas will surely have to go back to work Monday morning giving Dean some breathing space. Time to think. And to leave.

Except they don't. Turns out they've both taken another couple of personal days. No doubt, having given their bosses some sob story about Sam's disturbed Vet’ brother showing up on their doorstep.

Dean loves his brother, he truly does, more than he should, and he appreciates everything he and Cas are trying to do for him, but there's no way he's sticking around. He cannot live, even short term, with Sam and Cas. All their concerned attention is bad enough, their wary looks and pity, but what he really can't deal with is being an outside observer of their domestic bliss. Just a few days in, and Dean's about ready to snap. And it's not like he can ask them to stop. Hey guys, can you stop kissing each other please because it's really fucking hot and I'm a twisted pervert who gets turned on watching. Oh, and while you're at it guys, can you both stop being so damn sexy, because not only am I am depraved sicko who's been in love with his brother since he hit puberty but I'm also a complete asshole who's also now lusting after his brother's ridiculously hot boyfriend.

Yeah, that's not a conversation that would go down well.

"Dean, I really need to call Dad." And then there's that. Sam just will not quit.

Dean pinches out his cigarette and throws it down onto the grass, ignoring Sam's pained expression. Thinks briefly that he really needs to buy another pack because he’s down to his last two smokes now. "I told you I'll call Dad when I'm good and ready."

"And when will that be?"

On the third of fuck you, Dean does not say because he is not a fourteen year old little shit anymore.

"Come on, Dean, please. Just to let him know that you're safe. I don't understand why you're being so damn stubborn about this."

Dean quirks an eyebrow and crosses his arms. Maybe because he spent his whole fucking life being nothing but a disappointment to the great John Winchester. Maybe he's being stubborn because he never could live up to his father's expectations. Maybe because as far as his Dad's concerned Dean will never be as clever as Sammy, or as quick as Sammy, or as strong as Sammy. And of course, he'll never make-up for the fact that Mary Winchester died because of him. Whatever Sam seems to think.

Oh, and of course John has another kid now, someone else that's probably captain of the debate team and a quarterback on the football team, and has a string of long-legged, big breasted girlfriends. Someone else that John can be proud of. So excuse Dean for not being in a massive rush to hear the long overdue lecture about running off and leaving his family behind. 'Family, Dean, that's all that matters.'

"Dean?"

Dean rolls his eyes and stomps past Sam into the house. "I'll call him, okay." He doesn't say when. And he can hear Sam muttering as he follows Dean inside.

Cas looks set to say something when Dean walks into the kitchen, but closes his mouth when he sees the mulish expression Dean's wearing. "What?" Dean barks at him. And he knows he’s acting like a dick, but that doesn't stop him.

"I was just going to suggest that we take a drive out to Walmart and see if we could finally buy that air mattress."

Dean brushes him off. "The sofa's fine."

"It's really not," Sam objects. "If you're staying here—"

It's Dean's inner brattish kid brother that replies. "Who says I'm staying?"

"Well, where else are you gonna go, Dean?" Sam throws his arms up in exasperation.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Cas calmly asks before Dean can bite back at Sam. "You said before that you had plans?"

Sam scowls. "What kind of plans?"

"Plans that don't involve living in my big brother's box room."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam snaps, scraping his fingers through his hair. "Why can't you just let us help you? Why are you so determined to do everything on your own?"

"I'm not a kid, Sam. I'm a grown man. I can look after myself."

"Can you?" Sam asks, crossing the distance between him and Dean, and towering over him. "Honestly, Dean? You're barely eating. You're barely sleeping. It’s a miracle you're able to function as well as you are. And I mean, I'm not surprised, you've been through hell. But you can't stand there and tell me that you're fine."

Cas steps up to Sam's side, lays his hand on Sam's arm, his pale fingers curling around the thick curve of Sam's bicep. "Sam, maybe this isn't the way—"

"Y'know what, Sam," Dean shoves Sam right in the middle of his chest, watching in satisfaction as he stumbles backwards, there's more strength in his arms than Sam gives him credit for. "Fuck you. Maybe I'm not fine. But who the fuck is? You? Dad? Cas? Bobby? I don't think so. Not really. We're all just different colors of screwed up."

"Maybe that's true, Dean," Sam crowds back up in Dean's space, close enough that Dean can see a bead of sweat trickles down the hollow of his throat. Even through his anger it takes all his willpower not to lean forward and chase it with his tongue. "But at least Cas and I try to deal with our problems. We don't keep running away."

"Yeah?" Dean swallows, and looks away, trying to convince his dick that he's unaffected by Sam looming over him. "Well you always were fucking perfect Sammy. I never could compete."

"Trust me, I'm not perfect. And it's not a goddamn competition," Sam yells. And then Cas is squeezing in between them, pushing Sam back far enough that Dean can catch his breath.

"I think we should all calm down." Cas looks at Sam as he says it, another one of their private little looks that contains an entire conversation that Dean isn't privy to. "This isn't helping anyone."

Sam nods, although his chin is still angled defiantly. Dean's body, not for the first time, is caught between the desire to fight and fuck. His head is a goddamn disaster zone.

"Would anyone like a cup of tea?" Cas asks in all seriousness. Like suddenly he's an English butler and tea is the answer to the world's problems.

"Sure, thanks, Cas," Sam says, turning away, as Dean says, "No offence, Cas, but what I'd like is a drink."

Sam spins back around as Dean walks out of the kitchen, through to the sitting room where his bag is sitting. Dean shoves his feet into his boots, grabs his wallet, and his hoodie, and ignores Sam glaring at him from the doorway.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going out for a drink," Dean says shouldering past him on his way to the door.

"We have beer here," Sam points out, following Dean down the short hallway. "And you don't have a car."

"Yeah, well, I want a proper drink. And I can still fucking walk."

Sam's hand lands, huge and warm on Dean's shoulder. "Please, Dean." Sam's voice has lost its anger, but still holds an intensity that makes the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand to attention. "Just stay."

Dean shakes his head, and shrugs out from under his brother's touch. Leaves the house without looking back. He can hear Cas urging Sam inside as he storms down the sidewalk, reassuring Sam that Dean just needs a little space. That he'll be back.

It's not until Dean pulls the hoodie over his head, the material dropping down past his ass and his fingers disappearing inside the mile-long sleeves, that he notices it's the old college one Sam gave him the other night. Sam's scent still tucked inside warm tufts of cotton. Dean's heart lurches at the same time as his dick twitches feebly in his shorts.

He really needs a fucking drink.

The nearest bar is miles away. Or the nearest one that Dean can find anyway. It's not the classiest joint, half the letters on its tacky neon sign are dangling loose, and inside it's more low-rent then high-rate, but it's not the worst dive Dean's ever been in either. The place is pretty much empty, except for a few diehards propping up the bar and three old coots playing cards in a booth in the corner, but then it's barely passed four in the afternoon, still early for most folks. Dean sits down on a stool at the end of the bar, orders a beer with a whisky chaser, and is just sullen enough to discourage conversation but not to piss off the bartender.

He knocks back the whisky chaser, cringing when the cheap blend burns all the way down to his gullet, then nurses the beer while he stares at the small television behind the bar. If anyone asked he wouldn't be able to tell them what he was watching. He fully plans on getting wasted, but these days it doesn't take much to do that, so he's not in any rush to down his drinks, and by the time the bar starts filling up, mainly guys trickling in after they've finished work for the day, he's only on his third beer. Even then, his head is pleasantly muzzy.

He's picking idly at the bowl of peanuts on the bar, debating whether or not to order another whisky, maybe even a decent one this time, when he feels someone sitting down on the barstool next to him.

"Hey."

Dean turns his head to the side, quirks an eyebrow when he sees the guy perched next to him.

"I ain't seen you around here before."

The guy actually blushes when Dean laughs. "Tell me that wasn't a pick-up line." Dean didn't think this was that kind of place, not that he minds. Maybe a hook-up is what he needs. Fuck knows he hasn't been in the mood for anything more than his own hand for longer than he cares to remember. And this guy, well he's old enough and just about big enough for Dean to appreciate.

"I guess that depends on whether you're amenable to the offer," the guy grins. And although Dean rolls his eyes he has to admit the guy has a nice smile. Not heart-stuttering dimpled perfection, but belly warming pleasant.

"How about you buy me a decent scotch and we'll see." It's been a long time since Dean flirted but the liquor makes it easier. Quiets the skin thick buzz of wrongness.

The guy does; buys him a brand that's not quite top shelf but worth the soft tilt of Dean's lips and an exchange of names. Pete's easy company. Doesn't push Dean for his story. Just buys him a couple of drinks and watches his lips with undisguised fascination as they chat off and on about nothing. It's clear where his interest lies. When Dean drags his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth, let's it bounce back again spit-slick, Pete nearly falls off his stool. Dean had almost forgotten how good it felt to have someone want him. Not want to hurt him. Or save him. Or fix him. Just want him.

He rests his hand on Pete's thigh, too high up to be subtle, leans in close enough that the guy's cheap cologne prickles at Dean's eyes. "Need to piss." Dean grins, and nods towards the sign for the restroom. It's not exactly sweet talk but it gets Pete moving, following close on Dean's heels.

The bathroom is about as clean as Dean expected but he doesn't really care, just snags the hem of Pete's suede jacket in his fingers and pulls him towards the last cubicle in the corner of the piss-stinking room. Pete almost trips over himself, his meaty fingers clutching at the sleeve of Dean's hoodie. Sam's hoodie. Dean ignores the free-fall swoop of his belly when he remembers that.

"Fuck, yeah," Pete gasps when Dean doesn't stop to lock the door, just drops down onto his knees and tugs at Pete's belt. "Fuck, kid, wanted this since the second I walked in and saw you sitting there. Your lips, Jesus Christ."

Dean concentrates on undoing the belt with trembling fingers rather than worrying about the way the tacky floor is hell on his bony knees. Takes his time pulling down the zipper tooth by tooth, tugging open Pete's jeans.

"That's it, sweetheart," Pete murmurs, running his fingers through the dirty-blonde strands of Dean's hair. "Gonna be a good boy for me, Dean, huh? Gonna wrap those cock-sucking lips of yours around my dick? Show me how much you love it?"

Dean wants to tell him to shut up. But he can't say that the ridiculous dirty talk doesn't make his dick take a greater interest in the proceedings. So does watching the sleeves of Sammy's hoodie slip down over his knuckles as he pulls Pete's cotton boxers down under his balls. He licks his lips, and breathes in deep, open his mouth like he's about to pray just to hear Pete groan, his uncut dick jumping in Dean's face.

His fingers tighten in Dean's hair, anxious. "C'mon, baby, don't tease now, it's not nice."

Dean closes his eyes, presses the palm of his hand against his own dick encouragingly, when it’s not quite enough, he pictures Sam and Cas kissing in the kitchen the other night. Cas standing on his tip toes, his neck stretched in a taut line, adam's apple chasing up and down his throat. Sam's fingers pressing into the swell of his firm ass.

The tip of Pete's dick pushes past his lips, rests against Dean's tongue.

And then with the splintering crack of wood against wall, Dean's choking on the shock of cock slamming against the back of his throat. Pete blurts out apologies dick-whip quick, as Dean rears back, eyes watering and heartbeat thundering in his ears. Tears are still budding in his eyes when the stall door is flung open, and Pete is hauled backwards, boots screeching across the floor. Cas's concerned face peering into the cubicle in his place.

"Jesus Christ," Dean coughs, stumbling to his feet, shoving away Cas's offered helping hand. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Did you touch him, you sick son of a bitch?" Sam is shoving poor white-faced Pete up against the row of sinks, chipped porcelain digging into his back, and his dick hanging teeth-scraped limp between his hairy legs.

"Sam," Dean yells, diving across the bathroom. "Get the fuck off him." He grabs the arm that Sam has drawn back. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Did. You. Touch. Him?" Sam's neck is pulsing red, every muscle straining.

Pete looks towards Dean for help. "He... he wanted it, man, I swear. I didn't force him or nothing. I didn't know he belonged to no one."

"I don't," Dean spits, mad as hell. At the same time as Sam's yelling in Pete's face, "He's fucking mine, you understand. You don't touch him!"

"Jesus Christ." Dean yanks on Sam's arm, tries to twist him away from Pete. "I'm a grown man, Sam. If I want to blow some guy in the men's room I can. You don't get to tell me what to do anymore."

Sam's shakes him off, his face murderous. "Shut up, Dean."

"Hey, what's goin' on in here?"

"Get out," Sam roars at the old dude who's made the mistake of needing to piss at the wrong time. Pete uses the distraction to wriggle out from Sam's grip, rears out of the way when Sam lunges after him. There's a flurry of slip sliding feet, shoving and grabbing, and yelling, and in the end it's probably a wonder that Pete's the only one who goes down, crashing into the urinals and landing in a sprawled heap on the floor.

Cas is holding Sam back against a stall door, and Dean's standing in the middle of it all watching blood trickle down Pete's head.

And then he's on his knees on the floor, retching and struggling to breathe. The smell of piss and filth and the metallic tang of blood, more memory than real, slithering down Dean's throat, wrapping suffocating tendrils around Dean's lungs, squeezing the air right out of him.

"It's okay. You're okay. Just try to breathe, Dean."

Dean's awareness returns as the black stains swimming in front of eyes slowly recede. He's not sure how much time has passed, but once the weight pressing against his chest finally eases and his brain clicks back online, he discovers there's just the three of them left in the bathroom. His back's against the wall, and Sam and Cas are sitting either side of him on the piss-stained floor, their legs not quite touching Dean's. God, they're all gonna need hosing down with bleach when they get out of here.

"That's it, just take slow breaths. You're fine."

"You think he needs a doctor?" Sam asks.

Cas replies, voice as solid as Sam's is wavering. "No, I don't think so. Just give him a minute."

"I'm fine," Dean says, dragging his hand across his face, no doubt smearing the mess of snot and tears everywhere. At least he wasn't sick this time. He doesn't think. He wipes his palm across his thigh and let's his head thud back against the tile.

"Fuck," Sam exhales. "You scared the shit out of me, you jerk."

"Yeah, well, right back at ya, bitch," Dean retorts. "Storming in here like a fucking maniac."

"We were worried," Sam huffs.

Cas clears his throat pointedly. "You were worried. I said Dean was a grown man and perfectly capable of looking after himself."

Dean is pleased to note that his heartbeat has dropped back to normal, even though his legs feel like they might not cooperate fully just yet if he tries to stand up. He slaps Sam, backhanded in the belly, and sluggishly pats Cas's thigh. "You should listen to Cas occasionally; he's obviously the brains in your relationship."

"You weren't fine," Sam objects. "If I hadn't come in when I did—"

Dean cuts him off. "I might have gotten off for the first time in months."

"You had a fucking panic attack, Dean." Sam snaps, every ounce of older brother righteousness bursting to the surface.

"Ten out of ten for observation, wonderboy," Dean snaps right back. "Two out of ten for recollection. I didn't have a panic attack when I had poor Pete's dick in my mouth, that didn't happen until after you did your fucking Hulk impersonation."

Sam huffs and crosses his arms, then asks sullenly. "Since when did you like guys anyway?"

"Since I knew what my dick was for," Dean snarks back. "What you think you got all the gay genes in the family? Newsflash hotstuff, Dad was whooping' my ass for sucking dick back when you were making out with Double D Debbie in the back of the impala."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam screws up his face. Which part of that observation he found the most objectionable though, Dean wouldn't like to guess.

"Maybe this is not the right time or place to discuss this," Cas sensibly points out. "It's probably a good idea to get out of here sooner rather than later. Dean, do you think you can stand up yet?"

"Sure," Dean says, even though he's not even a little bit certain. He leans heavily on Cas as he climbs unsteadily to his feet, ignoring Sam's outstretched hand with a pettiness only possessed by huffy kid brothers. But once his legs are under him, and Dean's sure the room isn't going to sway out of focus, he manages to walk out of the bathroom under his own steam.

There's no sign of Pete, poor guy probably hit the road as soon as he got the chance. Dean doesn't blame him. The other patrons in the bar studiously ignore them as they walk out. Dean wonders if it's because of Sam's don't fuck with me scowl or Dean's obvious feebleness. Safe to say, either way, Dean's not gonna be stepping foot in this particular establishment ever again.

The Impala is parked outside, badly. Abandoned at a reckless angle that would give John Winchester a coronary. Dean quirks an eyebrow at Sam. "Shut up," Sam says, "And get in." He opens the back door for Dean, stands holding it, waiting for Dean to climb in like he's a kid.

Dean throws himself into the backseat with such a sharp sense of deja vu that he almost expects to see Dad drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and growling at him to move his ass. They drive back in awkward silence, Cas's hand occasionally drifting across the seat and brushing Sam's thigh, unspoken reassurance in the almost unconscious movement. Dean crosses his arms over his chest, leans back in the seat and does his best not to pout.

"Dad, knows?" Sam says out of the blue, two minutes from home. Sam and Cas's home. Not Dean's.

"Knows what? That his son's a fag? I just told you that he did."

Sam glares at him in the rearview mirror. "Don't use that word, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities."

"He never said anything."

"Yeah well, he wasn't exactly a cardholding member of PFlag."

"Did he... how did he... he didn't actually.... he reacted okay though, right?" Sam eventually spits out, when he's pulling the Impala into his driveway.

Dean snorts. "Sure he did. He gave me a big hug, made me cookies and told me he'd always be proud of me, no matter who I loved."

For a minute Sam almost looks like he believes Dean.

"Jesus, don't be a fucking idiot. He made me run laps until I puked, and told me never to let my guard down like that again." Dean shakes his head, opens the door and climbs out of Baby, silently apologizing when he slams the door a little too hard. His unexpected coming-out could have been a lot worse, Dean knows, but the look of disgust on his father's face is something that won't ever leave him.

"Well, I guess, finding you with a guy must have been a shock for him at the time." Sam says as climbs out of the car. "No parent wants to see their kid making out with anyone."

Cas shoots Sam a despairing look.

"Sure, because the time he walked in and found you fucking Maisie Bryant in the motel room while I was stuck in the bathroom with a stack of comics and a bag of Cheetos was just hell for you, right? He really kicked your ass for that one didn't he? Oh wait a minute... no, he made you drive her home, asked if you used a condom and told you not to do it while I was in the motel room next time. We were both sixteen when he caught us, Sam, you see a difference there? Why the fuck are you still standing up for the man?"

Fuck, Dean needs another drink, and a cigarette. Where the hell did he leave his cigarettes? He pats at the pockets of the hoodie just on the off chance as he follows Cas up the path to the front door.

"I'm sorry, Dean." Sam says from behind him. Dean's shoulders are a tense ridge while Cas unlocks the door and leads the way inside. "But I swear he's changed. He, well I wouldn't say he was exactly thrilled about me and Cas hooking up, but he was pretty cool about it. He didn't flip out or anything."

Dean shakes off Sam's hand and his crappy apology, heads instead straight towards his bag.

It's Cas who responds to Sam, a lot calmer than Dean ever could. "Sam, maybe the reason your father was relatively accepting of us was because he'd already lost one son. I'm sure he'd had plenty of time to consider how poorly he acted towards Dean. To regret his words and actions. Your father is a great many things, but he's no fool. He doesn't repeat the same mistakes twice."

Or maybe, Dean thinks, shame rolling in a hot sweat down his spine, Dad knew exactly how big a freak Dean was all along. Maybe that's really why he was so disgusted. Fingers shaking, Dean yanks open the zipper on his bag and rakes through his stuff, frantically searching for cigarettes. When he comes up empty handed, his gaze darts across the room before settling on Sam. "Do you know where my smokes are?"

"Uh... no." Sam says, but he looks shifty as fuck.

Cas notices too. "Sam?"

Sam crosses his arms across his chest. "I threw them in the trash, okay."

"Jesus, Sam," Dean huffs. His brother is still a controlling asshat.

Cas narrows his eyes. "Sam, your brother is a grown man; if he wants to smoke it's not up to you to stop him."

"I'm just looking out for him," Sam says to Cas, then turns to Dean, unrepentant. "Those things will kill you."

"Sure," Dean rolls his eyes, yanks shut his bag, hefts it over his shoulder and turns to face his brother. "That's what's gonna do it. Not bombs, not psycho serial killers, not werewolves or demons or my own fucking gun. It's gonna be twenty Marlboro that finishes me off."

Sam does his own his eye roll in response, while Cas stands uneasily at the side of them. "Your own gun?" He repeats at the same time Sam spits out. "Where the hell are you going?"

Dean chooses to ignore them both, barges straight towards the door instead. He's stopped by Sam's bulk shoving him against the wall. "I said, where the hell are you going?"

"I'm outta here, Sam." Dean tilts his head up and looks his brother straight in the eyes. "I never should have come here in the first place."

"So what, that's it?" Sam, eyes blazing and the vein in his temple twitching, shoves hard at Dean's chest. "You just gonna run off again? Gonna leave me again?"

"You're better off without me, Sam." Dean snarls back at him. "I was never gonna hang around and fuck up your cozy little life anyway."

"And I don't get a say in this?" Dean's going to have angry bruises in the shape of Sam's fingers etched into his skin for weeks. "You're... you're..."

" _Your own gun_?" Cas says again, he's taken a step towards them, standing at Sam's shoulder, looking at Dean with those too blue eyes. "Why would your own gun kill you?"

Sam stills, Cas's question finally sinking in.

"Dean?" Sam blinks.

"What? I dunno. Forget it." Dean's lips feel numb, the black cloud of another panic attack hovers thick over his head. He needs to get away. Right now.

"You said you had plans, Dean. Did those plans involve your gun?" Cas's gentle tone is at odds with the force with which Sam's palm is still pressing against Dean's chest.

It takes all his strength but Dean finally pushes himself forward, breaks free from Sam, knocking him out of his way and side stepping Cas. "No, they didn't," Dean lies. "Don't be fucking ridiculous."

"Dean," Sam's right behind him, arm snapping out whip-quick, his fingers curling around Dean's bicep. "Stop. Please stop."

"Let go of me, Sam. Just let go." Dean's almost pleading.

"Never," Sam's grip is implacable. "I will never let you go."

Dean turns back, spinning in towards Sam. They are both breathing heavy. Both wild eyed. "Not even if I need you to?" Dean asks.

"Never." Sam's response is simple and vehement.

"Sam," Dean's reply is more of a sob. "You don't understand."

"Then make me. Make me understand."

"I'm a fuck-up, Sammy. I get panic attacks, and nightmares, and... and... flashbacks. Half the time I'm so exhausted all I want to do is sleep and the rest of the time I'm so fucking wired I can't sleep. I can't eat. Not without wanting to hurl at the thought of the... the.... fucking Benders b...b.. butchering... fuck!" Dean smacks his hand against the side of his head to stop the memories from taking over, exhales a shuddering breath, and focuses on Sam's face again. "I'm a killer. A stone cold killer. I killed that kid. And Vic, his death is all on me."

Sam's calm when he answers. Calmer than he's been since the bar. "I'll keep telling you this until you believe me, Dean. You killed that bitch in self-defense. She was a monster, nothing less. And Vic; you weren't responsible for his death. He wouldn't blame you. I swear to god, he wouldn't."

Dean shakes his head, pulls at his hair until it stings. "I'm sick, Sam. Sick in the head."

"That's not true."

Dean almost screams with frustration. He doesn't know how Sam can't see it. Can't see the evil that bleeds from Dean, poisons everything he touches. The rage hits him, unexpected and violent, like a blast of energy. It blows through him like a hurricane, wild and furious. He pushes at Sam, slams both hands palms flat against Sam's brick wall chest. "Why can't you see it?" He's screaming. "Why can't you fucking see it?" His fingers curl into fists and he's pummeling them against Sam, and Sam, he's just standing there with his hands loose at his sides letting Dean fly.

"I'm fucking twisted, Sam. Don't you see?"

Sam catches Dean's wrists in the space between their bodies, holds him steady. "No. No, Dean. I don't. Because you're not."

And then Dean's surging forward, his lips smashing against Sam's. It's a car crash of a kiss, a messy collision of lips and teeth. It's Dean finally proving how fucked in the head he is. It's everything that he can't put into words, his Hail Mary pass. It's the only way that Sam's not only going to let Dean walk out of his life, but be glad of it.

Except, Sam doesn't pull back, doesn't shove Dean away. Doesn't punch him in the face. He stands frozen at first, rigid at the sudden press of Dean's lips against his own. Then he kisses back. But not like Dean. Not with spite and venom and a point to prove, but with a gentleness that sends Dean reeling backwards, his eyes blown wide.

Sam stares after him, mouth parted and fingers jumping up to his lips, tracing the scene of the crime.

"Wh... what?" Dean stutters, scrubbing his hand across his mouth. He stumbles another step backwards, flinching when he collides with another body, and a hand presses lightly against the dip of his back.

"It's okay, Dean," Cas says, his breath warm at the back of Dean's neck. "It's okay."

"No," Dean shakes his head, sucks in a desperate breath, his pulse beating in his ears, too loud, too fast. "I don't... I don't understand."

"Dean," Sam takes a step towards him. "Just breathe, man."

Dean would love to, swear to god. This choking on air shit ain't funny anymore. But it's easier said than done. The oxygen feels like it's being sucked out of the hallway and Dean's head is swimming. His vision narrowing, tunnel dark. Again. "You... you kissed me." He wheezes.

"You kissed me first," Sam says, long legs taking a step towards Dean.

"Sam!" Cas says, a note of disapproval in his voice. "Dean, maybe you should sit down for a second."

"I'm fine," Dean says, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs, eyes clenching tight. The words coming out in a strangled wheeze.

Cas's hand drops down to run circles across his back. Usually when panic is clawing in his chest, Dean hates to be touched, it makes his skin crawl and the fear climb up another notch, but Cas's gentle caress is nothing but calming.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean opens his eyes to see Sam crouched in front of him. "I'm sorry if I freaked you out. Just breathe in nice and easy, okay."

Dean tries, drags in a shuddering breathe that seems to rattle his rib cage.

"Hey, hey, Dean, remember when you were what... six, seven, and you broke your arm jumping off that shed roof?"

Dean scowls at Sam and heaves in another harsh breath. "I was... " Dean exhales sharply. "I was five." Breathes in, Sam's fingers curled around his calf, Cas's hand make another slow circle across his back. "And I jumped because you... " breathes out, concentrates on Sam's eyes, fixed unblinking on his. "You jumped first. You said... " breathes in. "You could fly. And I thought if you could then so could I."

"Yeah, but dude," Sam smiles, dimples just starting to appear. "I was nine. And I was Superman. You were only Batman. Everyone knows Batman can't fly."

"Well I didn't know. And Batman's still way cooler than Superman."

"Superman could kick Batman's ass any day of the week. You remember I drove you to the hospital on the handlebars of my bike? Man, you were a tough little brat. You didn't even cry."

"Not until dad got there anyway," Dean recalls. "He was pissed."

"He was pissed because Mrs. Stanway, the neighbor who was supposed to be watching out for us, was passed out drunk on her bed."

"I didn't remember that," Dean admits. He'd figured Dad had just left them all alone again.

"Maybe we could go sit down?" Cas suggests and Dean realizes that thanks to Sam's unique distraction technique, the panic pressing against his chest has lightened and his breathing is almost back to normal. He uncurls from himself, stands up straight, wincing at the tightness in his muscles, the creaking complaint in his back. Sam rises up with him, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. Sandwiched between Sam and Cas, Dean should feel hemmed in, trapped, if it was anyone else he would, but for once all he honestly feels is safe. 

By the time they make it through to the kitchen, Dean flanked by Cas and Sam on either side, Dean's breathing is back to normal although the dread of what's to come is fluttering anxiously in his belly like butterfly wings made of lead. All three of them sit down at the table, Cas pressing a glass of water into Dean's trembling hand.

"So,” Sam says, leaning across the small table towards Dean. "We really do need to talk."

Dean groans into his water glass before setting it down. Talking. When did that shit ever help. His eyes flit towards the garden beyond the roller doors.

"You're not leaving," Sam says firmly. "So don't even think about it."

"You're not the boss of me," Dean retorts weakly, with all the maturity of a four year old. Cas huffs out an exasperated laugh and rolls his eyes at the pair of them. Dean smiles sheepishly.

"I believe it's, as they say, time to cut the crap." The words sound foreign coming out of Cas's mouth, like he doesn't know quite how to curl his tongue around them. It should be funny, but Dean's smile fades. Dean's _full_ of crap. He's ninety percent horseshit and bluster. You cut that out of him and all you're left with is a terrified little kid who's in love with his brother and hates himself for it. He doesn't want anyone, especially not Sam and Cas to see that.

Sam doesn't appear perturbed though, he glances at Cas, and seems to take strength from the calm sea in his eyes. Dean watches Sam nod once purposefully, and take a deep breath before he focuses all his attention on Dean. "I love you."

Dean swallows hard. It's nice to hear, especially after Dean's ridiculous little breakdown, but of course Sam loves him; they're brothers, it's pretty much in the job description.

"He doesn't mean in a brotherly way, Dean." Cas must read his mind. "Although I'm sure that's true too. Sam loves you in the same way you love him."

Dean shakes his head. Cas doesn't know what he's saying. He can't possibly. "No, I don't... he doesn't.... " Dean stutters, panic already budding in his chest again at the thought of Sam and Cas knowing his filthy little incestuous secret. Cas cuts off his denials before Dean can begin to get worked up.

"Yes, Dean, you do. You love Sam. You're in love with Sam. And he loves you too. Exactly the same way. And I know you think it's wrong, unnatural, but as I've been telling Sam for years, considering your upbringing, the way your lives have been wrapped together since you were born, I don't believe that's true."

Dean blinks, taken aback. Cas can't be talking about the physical attraction that he feels towards Sam, the love that's anything but brotherly, not so openly, without condemnation or disgust.

"Sam doesn't... he can't… " The words are sticking like thorns in Dean's throat.

"I've wanted you for so long, Dean." Sam says, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Even though I hated myself for it."

"No," Dean can't accept that. Won't.

"It's true, Dean." Sam pushes his fingers through his hair, tugs at the ends before settling his hands down flat on the table between them. "It might not be normal, or healthy but you... you were everything to me, Dean. You were the one perfect thing in my life. From the moment Dad placed you in my arms and told me to look out for you, you were the center of my universe. The most important thing in the world. When you upped and left, just disappeared like that, I thought.... I thought you'd found out. Thought you knew how badly I wanted to kill everyone who looked at you. Thought you knew the sick thoughts I had about kissing my kid brother. About doing more. I thought you'd figured out just how badly I wanted to keep you all to myself. When Cas suggested that you were attracted to me too, I didn't believe him. I didn't dare."

Dean pinches the skin on the back of his hand, trying to ground himself, trying to work out if this isn't all some weird dream he's having while he's actually passed out in a hyperventilating mess on the floor.

Cas gently pries his hands apart, keeping hold of one of them in his own. And man, Cas's hands are soft, nothing like Dean's or even Sam's. "Don't you see, Dean? You and Sam, you belong together. You always did. You always will."

But that's not right. Cas and Sam; they belong together. They deserve each other. Dean, well Dean doesn't deserve shit. The things he wants aren't right. Aren't normal. Who lusts after his own brother? Freaks and perverts, that's who. Except Sam. Sam's neither of those things. It just... it doesn't make sense. It feels like Dean's world has been tipped on its side. Nothing makes sense anymore. The neat little boxes he had stacked in his mind; Dean's a fuck-up, Sam's perfect, Dad's a homophobic hard-ass, are now a jumbled mess.

But still, Cas and Sam, they're a couple, and whether Sam has feelings for Dean or not —and Dean still thinks not is the sanest option— Dean would never try to wedge himself between them. Sam loves Cas. Even an idiot like Dean who has the emotional awareness of a cabbage can see that.

"Dean?" Sam nudges him out of his thoughts.

Dean yanks his hand back from Cas and snorts inelegantly, and more than a little manically. "Yeah, no. No, Sam. This is... this is fucking crazy. You don't honestly expect me to believe that you... that you want to—"

"I love you, Dean. I want you. I always have."

"But Cas,"

Sam gazes at Cas. "I love Cas too."

"Love is infinite, Dean, boundless," Cas adds, unruffled. "It can't be contained. Sam can love us both at the same time, just as I can love him and be undeniably attracted to you. You and Sam finally acknowledging your feelings for one another does not diminish the love Sam and I have for each other."

And that makes sense, kind of, Dean thinks. As much sense as anything else makes right now.

"I—" Sam starts to say, then changes his mind. " _We_... we want you to stay. Here. With us."

"No," Dean shakes his head, but god, he wants to say yes, deep down, he wants to be here with Sam, and Cas too. Wants to sleep on their sofa and eat their food and... but no. Dean Winchester is screwed in the head, a big time fuck-up. Sure he might have had a rough start in life, and maybe he didn't have an ideal childhood or the best of luck, but that's no excuse. He's going to rot in hell for the things he's done and he's not going to drag anyone else down with him. Definitely not Sammy.

Sam and Cas both startle when Dean jerks back in his seat like he's been shot. For one electrified second he freezes and then before Sam or Cas have time to react he lurches to his feet, his chair tumbling backwards and crashing to the floor with a clatter that echoes through the kitchen almost as loud as Dean’s jack-rabbit heartbeat.

They all know he's going to run. It's in his DNA. He's proven it time and again. When the going gets rough, Dean Winchester hits the road. This time though, Sam and Cas aren't just going to watch him go.

In Dean's estimate there's less than a dozen steps to the hallway, maybe a dozen more to the front door, he doesn't even manage three before Sam is hurtling into him, shoving him against the wall. The sudden impact forcing a grunt of pain from Dean.

Sam doesn't say anything just pins him in place and slams his mouth against Dean's, crushing their lips together. Dean closes his eyes and tries not to hate himself for enjoying it. Sam doesn't let up, not until Dean's lightheaded and weak-kneed.

"Dean," Sam's voice is rough, his hands fisted in Dean's hoodie, holding him close. "I'm not letting you leave. Not again."

"S'not your choice, Sam." Dean mumbles, too scared to look Sam in the face because he knows Sam will see the truth in his eyes. The weakness.

Sam gives a frustrated grunt and shakes him; Dean's head thuds against the wall. "Dammit Dean, listen to me. I want you here. Cas wants you here. In our home. Our lives. Our bed."

And suddenly Dean is aware of Cas standing right beside them, his deep voice sending a shiver rippling down Dean's spine. "You can have this, Dean. You deserve this."

Dean can feel tears collecting in his eye, because goddamn it, he wants to believe Cas.

"If you leave me, Dean," Sam says, and there's a break in his voice that finally forces Dean to meet his eyes, and fuck but Sam's face is wrecked. "If you leave me again, I'll not..." And Dean's heart cracks as Sam breaks off, his chest heaving and his hands falling by his sides.

"It's okay, Sam," Cas says quietly from beside them. "It's okay." He takes hold of one of Sam's hands, linking their fingers together. "You need each other," he says to Dean, nothing but honesty in his voice and his eyes. "To be whole. To be happy. You always have, and you always will. Stay."

Maybe Dean's weak, or maybe he's selfish, or maybe he's finally tired of running. But when Sam opens his mouth, another desperate plea bleeding from his lips, the last of Dean's reluctant resistance crumbles.

He doesn't say anything, he can't to be honest, but when he takes that step forward, twists his fingers in Sam's hair, rises onto his toes and presses his lips to his brother's, he hopes he doesn't have to. And by the way Sam relaxes into the kiss, and Cas hums his approval from beside them, he thinks they understand.

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

"Well that didn't go so bad," Sam's arm drops down over Cas's shoulder. They're standing at the window watching Dean and John say their goodbyes outside.

Cas nods his agreement as he watches John hug a rather stiff-backed Dean. "There were no punches thrown, so I'd say it went better than expected."

John clasps Dean's shoulder, and says something that almost makes Dean smile before he finally climbs up into his truck. It appears to take a great deal of effort for John to drag himself away from his younger son. All day, Cas has been catching the looks of wonder and disbelief on the man's face. John knows how lucky he is to get Dean back, there's no mistaking that. He knows he screwed up. In more ways than one. More often than he could count. And John Winchester, the man who never admits he's wrong, has apologized, over and over again; on the phone and in person today, when Dean finally relented and allowed his father to visit. Dean's still wary. Still pissed at this new Happy Families version of his father. And he's not been shy about letting John know how betrayed he feels.

But still, Cas thinks they'll work things out eventually. Dean loves his father despite the grudges he holds, and deep down all he's ever wanted is the man's approval. Sam's not much different in all honesty.

Dean stands on the sidewalk watching his father's black beast of a truck pull away, his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched. He doesn't move even when the truck rounds the corner and disappears out of view. 

"You think we should go see if he's okay?" Sam's stiff beside Cas, the urge to help Dean, to protect or comfort, as always pulsing through his body. Cas understands it, a lot of the time he has the same instincts and he's only really known Dean for five months, not the lifetime Sam has, but in those months he's discovered that Dean sometimes needs space, time to process and think things through. "Let's give him a few moments," Cas says, turning away from the window and tugging Sam with him. "He'll come in when he's ready."

Sam follows him through the house, helps clean up the remains of dinner and fill the dishwasher, but the tightness in his jaw and the worried crease between his eyebrows doesn't disappear until they hear the front door open and close and Dean's footsteps walking down the hallway.

Cas hooks his fingers around Sam's wrist just for a second, a reminder. Sam's intentions are always good, but his intensity can be overwhelming. And even after five months, Dean can still be twitchy; his mood not easy to predict. His therapist appointments are helping, but it took a while to convince Dean that talking to someone could be a good idea and he's only seen her a half dozen times so far; there's still a long road to go.

Some days Dean's fine, more than. He'll crack wise-ass jokes, tease Sam mercilessly about his hair and his poor taste in sweaters. He'll spend hours researching college courses, discovering the joys of on-line shopping and browsing sites that Sam swears have left a dozen viruses lurking in his laptop. He bakes pies and fixes crap around the house with equal skill, and at night he'll crawl into bed for a while with Sam and Cas. Those days are good. And happening more frequently.

But still there are days when Dean flinches at the sight of a kitchen knife in Cas's hand. Mornings when he wakes up screaming. Hours on end when he won't come out of the bathroom, won't let anyone touch him when he does, his eyes bloodshot and the stench of puke lingering on his breath. There are still too many nights that Sam and Cas sit either side of Dean on the sofa, arms wrapped around his shoulders, anchoring him to their world, doing everything in their power to stop his demons from winning.

He's still on the skinny side and Sam still checks twice a day that his guns, and Dean's, are locked up tight.

"Hey, so I didn't punch him in the face, and I only made one Brady Bunch quip; I did good right?" Dean's lips are tilted into a practiced smirk. He's practically bouncing on his feet, full of nervous energy and looking for a surefire way to burn it off.

From the corner of his eyes, Cas catches Sam's knowing smile, mirrors it with one of his own, because, yeah, sometimes Dean also gets in this kind of mood. And that's fine by Sam and Cas too.

"Sure, Dean, you did good," Sam agrees, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Cas's jeans, giving his ass a sly squeeze.

"Indeed," Cas adds, his eyebrow quirked. "I'm sure your father never even noticed the extra chili sauce you slipped into his fish tacos."

Dean grins and shrugs, a guilty flush lighting up his cheeks. "Could have been so much worse, Cas." And by now Cas knows that is very true. The week the brothers spent pitched in a prank war is something neither he, nor the neighbor’s cat will soon forget. "So..." Dean licks his lips, far too deliberately to mean anything innocent. "You guys want to fuck?"

Sam barks out a laugh and Cas roll his eyes good naturedly. A horny Dean is not a subtle Dean. 

"Seriously? Dad's not even out of town yet. Bobby'll be on the phone in about ten minutes to see if he needs to bail any of us out of jail."

"You promised, Sammy," Dean's dangerously close to pouting. A little brother trick that Cas knows Sam falls for every single time. Not that Cas has ever called Dean on it. He's as much twisted around Dean's little finger as Sam is. "And I wore something nice."

Cas's heart jumps at that, because yes, Dean isn't quite as vanilla as Sam and Cas thought he would surely be, but with his father here, he wouldn't have risked... Cas doesn't even finish the thought before Dean slips his thumb inside the top of his jeans, tugging them down just far enough for Sam and Cas to catch a glimpse of lace covered elastic and pink satin. And God in Heaven, Cas's mouth goes dry at the sight. One of these days Dean's mood swings are going to leave them all with whiplash. Thirty minutes ago the kid was strung so tight that Cas thought his spine was going to snap. Now, he's all but playing the sex kitten.

"Dean," Sam's voice is husky, his mouth apparently as dry as Cas's. "Please tell me you haven't been wearing those all afternoon."

In answer, Dean slowly undoes the buttons on his jeans, one by one, revealing the baby pink satin panties hidden beneath. "I had to have something other than Dad's face to focus on to get me through today. Been thinking about you and Cas fucking me since this morning."

Cas lets out an involuntary groan; his cock thickening so quickly he feels like a fifteen year old again. "That is... that is..." he stumbles over his words, his vocabulary for once failing him.

"Hot?" Dean suggests, shrugging his jeans off completely along with his white sports socks, leaving him in standing in front of them in just a black tee-shirt, that actually belongs to Cas, and those distracting panties.

Beside Cas, Sam adjusts himself. "Inappropriate," Cas blurts out. "I was going to say inappropriate."

"But hot too, right?" Dean winks.

"Dean, are you sure—"

"Do I look sure?" Dean cuts Sam off sharply, jutting his hip at an angle and cupping his balls through the shining satin. His cock is already straining the material, peeking out the top of the waistband. "Now are you gonna fuck me, or do I have to do it myself? I did mention that I found your stash of sex toys, didn't I? That black dildo; fuck, it might be bigger than you Sam, I'm sure it could fill me up good."

Cas doesn't know whether to be mortified that Dean found their toy box, annoyed at his snooping, or amused by Dean's impish mood. Turned on seems to be the sentiment winning out.

Sam growls, but it's more playful than pissed. "You went poking around under our bed, Dean? What the hell?"

Dean smirks, green eyes sparkling. "Gotta do something with my time when I'm here all my ownsome. So, you wanna watch me fuck myself then?"

Dean saunters away, bow legs even more pronounced without his pants on.

"I'm gonna kick your damn ass is what I'm gonna do," Sam says following him out of the room, and dragging Cas with him by the sleeve.

"Ooh kinky, Sammy. I knew you had it in you," Dean tosses back over his shoulder, speeding up when Sam's longer legs quickly eat up the distance between them. Dean makes it up to the bedroom first but only by the skin of his teeth. He strips off the tee-shirt as he reaches the bed, throwing it in Sam's face as he crawls into the middle of the bed, turning so he's lying on his back, legs spread wide, and eyes challenging when he looks from one of them to the other.

Dean isn't like this often. He's shy a lot of the time, not sure of himself or his place in their relationship. In fact, that's something they're all still trying to work out for themselves. Their dynamic isn't straightforward. It shifts and flips, as changeable as the wind. And as difficult to predict.

Cas loves having Dean with them and he doesn't regret for one second suggesting to Sam that this could work, the three of them together, but occasionally he does feel like an outsider; wonders whether with their history, the intensity of their relationship, Sam and Dean would be better off without him.

But if he ever mentions it, and he has done only twice so far when self-doubt outweighed reason, Sam insists that without Cas, he and Dean would never work. That their relationship is too unpredictable, volatile. That without Cas's calm patience and unbending love, Sam and Dean would end up consuming one another, like a dragon eating its own tail.

And Sam loves Cas. That is without question. Equally without doubt is how much Cas loves Sam in return. And as for Dean, well, Cas fell a little in love with Dean through Sam's stories long before they ever met, and in lust with him as soon as he set eyes on his too pretty face and vulnerable soul. And even if sometimes forked tongues whisper doubts in Cas's mind that what they have can never last, he is far too stubborn to listen.

"Jesus, Dean, look at you," Sam says, voice thick. He's already undressing, unbuttoning his shirt and fumbling with his belt buckle.

Cas follows suit blindly, unable to look away from Dean spread like a divine offering across their sheets. He can't help but wonder how much those pretty pink panties were a big fuck you to John Winchester. A secret rebellion against his father. Whatever Dean was thinking, Cas sure isn't complaining. Dean's the most captivating creature Cas has seen since the night Sam walked into his life; a long legged temptation that Cas didn't stand a chance against. If the Winchester brothers were put on this Earth to test him, Cas was doomed to fail. He doesn't know how anyone with eyes and a heart could resist them.

"What do you want, Dean?" Cas asks, as he pulls off his socks and throws them somewhere in the direction of the laundry basket in the corner of the room. One thing he's learned, as far as Dean is concerned, is to be direct when it comes to sex. Dean doesn't like surprises and Cas doesn't like guess work.

"I want you both to fuck me." Dean admits, not quite meeting Cas's eye because he still finds it awkward to verbalize what he needs. Actions come far easier to him than words. "Sam first, and then you. If you want to."

"Of course," Cas says solemnly. As if there was any question of him wanting to. Sam climbs onto the bed first, knee walks to Dean's side, and runs his fingers down Dean's chest and over his concave belly, skims over the scars and faded burn marks littering his pale skin with as equal reverence as he does the caramel pops of freckles. He stops just short of those sinful panties. "How do you want this, Dean?" Sam asks.

"Rough," Dean replies, his face is almost beet red, it almost always is when he's actually asking for something. Even in bed it's been hard to convince him he deserves to have what he wants. "Want you to f...fuck me hard. Want to feel you both tomorrow. Need... need to know—"

Sam nods, presses a finger down across the center of Dean's lips because he gets it. Dean needs to feel loved, protected. Owned. When he's on his own tomorrow he needs something real to focus on to stop him overthinking. He needs the visceral reassurance. And if that means leaving bruises on his skin and making sure that his ass is too sore to sit down on then Sam and Cas will give him that. It's not something that happens often, thankfully. But they've learnt not to second guess Dean when he asks for this. Even if they think they're refusing him for the right reason, Dean takes it as flat out rejection. Thinks that it means he's wrong to want the things he does. The downward spiral that Sam and Cas's good intentions send Dean on is dangerous and difficult to stop. It's happened a few time, and the aftermath every time was messy.

Dean might want it rough, but Sam starts off slowly, covering his body in feather light kisses.

Cas stands watching with his cock in hand as Sam licks a trail across Dean's skin from his belly button up to his nipples. Cas never once imagined this would be a kink for him, but watching Sam and Dean tangled together never fails to turn him on. Sometimes he's happy doing only this, can get himself off with just his fist wrapped loose around his dick watching the brothers making love. Sam always apologies those nights, makes sure Cas is folded tight in his arms when they fall asleep even though Cas explains over and over that he enjoys witnessing the two of them wrapped in each other. Dean seems to understand though. He's told Cas that watching him and Sam together does similar things for him. And when he's in the mood, horny as hell, or relaxed after a few drinks, Dean can put on quite the show if he knows Cas is getting off on it.

Now though, Dean's too busy writhing under Sam's deft hands to worry about performing for an audience of one. Sam's mouthing at Dean's dick through the barely-there barrier of his panties. The delicate pink satin turning dark, almost crimson, with Sam's spit and Dean's precome, and Dean's mumbling incoherent curses under his breath.

Cas lets go of his dick, there's no way he's gonna last long enough to fuck Dean if he doesn't. He climbs onto the bed beside the brothers instead, kissing the dip between Sam's shoulder blades before lying down on his side beside Dean, running his hand over Dean's chest and plucking at his sensitive nipples just to see his eyelashes flutter and dick twitch hard.

"Stop fucking teasin'," Dean complains.

"Just a little payback, Dean," Cas nips at Dean's ear lobe. "For wearing those wicked panties all day without telling us."

Dean shudders as Cas scrapes his teeth down the side of his neck, nibbling at the sharp cut of his jaw before claiming Dean's mouth in a long hard kiss. Dean tastes of beer and cherry pie and Sam. It's not unpleasant.

"Like them so much I'm not even gonna take them off," Sam takes his mouth off Dean's dick and lifts his head just long enough to growl. "Gonna slip them to the side when I fuck you, Dean. Gonna make you come all over them."

When Cas looks down Sam has Dean's knees pushed up, his heels digging into the mattress by his thighs. The lube's lying by Dean's feet and Sam already has two fingers sliding in and out of Dean's ass. Cas moans at the sight, his cock twitching against the too bony jut of Dean's hip.

Even the best porn couldn’t compare to watching Sam reduce his brother to this needy beautiful mess. 

Two fingers turns into three and Sam's tongue, and then four and Dean arching off the bed begging for more, sweat rolling down the side of his neck, chest flushed red hot. Cas isn’t sure who’s hardest by time Sam finally sinks his hard length inside Dean's ass. It's almost impossible not to rub himself off against Dean's soft skin at the sight of Sam's holding Dean's legs up as he thrusts inside him, Sam's fingers sure to leave darkened bruises where he's grasping Dean's lean thighs.

Cas greedily swallows the soft gasps from Deans lips as Sam fucks his brother hard, just like Dean wanted, his pace unforgiving and focus unrelenting. Neither of them touch Dean's dick trapped inside his skimpy underwear.

The bed shakes with the force of Sam's thrust, headboard banging against the wall and the mattress groaning under the onslaught. Dean's cock is leaking continually over his stomach and the waistband of his ruined panties by the time Sam comes with a drawn out groan and a full body shudder inside his little brother.

Cas barely waits until Sam has ridden out the last of his orgasm, and dragged his cock torturously slowly out of Dean's puffy hole before taking his place. Perched on his knees, he props Dean's legs up over his shoulders, and nudges his cock, quickly slicked with lube, passed the wrecked sliver of pink satin and inside Dean's ass. His hole, fucked loose and leaking fat blobs of Sam's come, clings to Cas's dick and Dean whimpers his pleasure into Sam's mouth.

Cas leans forward, practically bending Dean in half to join in the kiss. It's messy and clumsy and Cas ends up with Sam's nose in his eye at one point, but he doesn't care; it's the hottest thing ever. He can't believe he's lucky enough to have not just one Winchester but two in his bed. And it might be awkward at times, and inelegant, but he'll never not want to kiss either of them when the chance arises.

When Dean's moans turn into frustrated sobs Cas finally forces himself to break away and start to move. As much as he wants to make love to Dean gently, worship him with the tenderness he deserves, that's not what Dean wants. So with his fingers curling around Dean's calves, Cas rocks into Dean again and again, adjusting the angle of his hips, the angle he's holding Dean at until his cock brushes against the spot that drags a needy groan from Dean's lips, makes him buck and writhe and grasp blindly for his brother.

Sam stays draped along Dean's side while Cas fucks him, whispering in his ear and caressing every inch of skin that he can reach; Cas's forearm, Dean's thighs, the curve of Cas's hip, the ball of Dean's shoulder.

Cas's orgasm hasn't been far off ever since he sank inside Dean's warm, welcoming body, so he's not surprised when the low buzz of pleasure singing through his nerves soon graduates into a rush of need to come right the fuck now. The only thing stopping him from toppling over the edge of that abyss is that Dean hasn't come yet.

"Sam," Cas gasps out, and that's all the hint Sam needs. He barely has to touch Dean, just brushes his fingers over Dean's neglected dick through the destroyed scrap of satin, and Dean comes with a shout and a body-wracking shudder, his ass clamping down on Cas's cock and setting off an ear-ringing explosion in Cas's head that ripples all the way down his spine leaving him a wrung-out panting wreck.

"Holy shit," Dean manages when he comes back to himself enough to speak.

Cas is still breathing hard, still gazing down at Dean with an awe-struck expression.

"Jesus," Sam says. "You two are gonna kill me."

Cas lowers Dean's legs to the mattress, massaging his hips to ease the strain he must be feeling.

"I hope not," Cas says, kissing the tip of Sam's nose, and raising his eyebrow at the impressive hard-on he's sporting again, before collapsing down onto the bed at the other side of Dean.

Sam's dick poking into his side makes it hard for Dean to miss his brother's renewed interest. “No offence, Sammy, but you better find somewhere else to stick that thing because my ass is out of commission for the rest of the night," he mumbles.

"I'd apologize," Sam smirks, "but it's your own fault for being so fucking hot."

Sam trails his fingers down Dean's belly, plays with the splashes of come smeared across his skin, soaking thick through the panties and across the inside of his thighs. "You sure I can't convince you to go again? You did say you wanted to feel us tomorrow."

"Mmm," Dean hums, his eyes closing and a contented ease settling into his bones. "Maybe once I've had a nap.

Cas nuzzles his nose against Dean's hair then presses a gentle kiss against his collar bone. Exchanging soft smiles with Sam, he links their fingers together across Dean's belly.

This, this right here, now, is good. Things haven't been easy for the past five months, and Lord knows there's still a hard road ahead, for Dean especially, but for them all really. It's a fucked up situation, without a doubt. The relationship between the three of them will never be considered normal or conventional, or particularly legal even. But when it’s just the three of them, alone together, when Sam's smiling and Dean's relaxed and at peace, Cas will never regret falling in love with the Winchester brothers.

It feels so natural, so right, that sometimes he wonders if that was God's plan for him all along.

 

_Finis!_

 

_Thank you so much for reading!_

 

[Link to artwork on Tumblr! ](https://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/post/165184712825/boundless-love-and-leaving-art)

 

 

 


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